BATMANBEGINS

Bruce Wayne is dead. The young heir to the Wayne empire disappeared seven years ago. His vast
fortunehasbeengivenaway,andthecrimewavethatbeganwiththebrutalmurderofhisparentshas
turned Gotham City into a living hell. The last holdouts against corruption—the cops who can't be
bought,theD.A.'swhocan'tbeintimidated—areoutnumberedandoutgunned.Theyneedhelp...fast.

Aworldaway,inadankHimalayanprison,anameless,hardenedmanfightseverydaytosurvive.He

hasspentsevenyearsscouringtheglobe,studyingthecriminalmind,lookingforananswertotheugly
riddleofhischildhood.butsomethinghasbeenlookingforhim,too.Here,inthedarkestplacesofhis
ownanger,BruceWaynewilldiscoverhisdestiny—andanordinarymanwillbecomealegend.

BatmanBeginsisaworkoffiction.Names,places,andincidentseitherareproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.

ADelReyBooksMassMarketOriginal

PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyDelReyBooks,animprintofTheRandomHousePublishingGroup,adivisionofRandomHouse,Inc.,

NewYork.

DelReyisaregisteredtrademarkandtheDelReycolophonisatrademarkofRandomHouse,Inc.

ISBN-13:978-0-345-47946-4

PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica

DelReyBookswebsiteaddress:

www.delreybooks.com

www.dccomics.com

Keyword:DCComicsonAOL

Firstedition:July,2005

ToMarifranandLarry...oh,andtheUniverse,
I’malwayshappytoacknowledgetheUniverse.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Bynow,theBatmansagaishuge.BruceWayneandhiscrime-fightingalteregohavebeenappearing
continuouslyforsixty-fiveyears,ineverymedium.Butweshouldrememberthatitallbeganwith“The
CaseoftheChemicalSyndicate”inDetectiveComics#27,writtenbyBillFingerandwithartbyBob
Kane.Ithankthemboth.

I’venevermetChristopherNolanandDavidGoyer,whowrotethefilmscriptthatbecameBatman

Begins,andprobablyneverwill,butI’dliketostatefortherecordthattheydidaniftyjobanditwasa
pleasurecollaboratingwiththem.

ChrisCerasiisthatincreasinglyrarekindofeditorwhoseconcernisonlythattheworkbegood.I

appreciatehiscourtesy,astuteness,andencouragement.

It was nice, and surprising, to be again involved in a project with a fellow yeoman from the old

Marveldays,SteveSaffel.

WhenIwaswritingBatmanstoriesforcomics,myprimaryeditorswereJuliusSchwartzandArchie

Goodwin.Theywere,eachinhisway,superbcolleaguesandwonderfulfriends.Imissthemandwill
alwaysbegratefultothem.

ENNIS

O’N

EIL

UpperNyack,NewYork
January2005

BATMANBEGINS

PARTI

BRUCEWAYNE

CHAPTERONE

FROMTHEJOURNALSOFRĀ’SALGHŪL

I remain committed to my goal of saving humanity from itself, but my latest efforts are meeting
withmixedresults.

TheAustrianmadmanisintoxicatedwithhissuccessesinNorthAfricaandthusheagreedwith

oursuggestionthatheinvadeRussia.Itwillbefolly,andhewillfailastheFrenchmanbeforehim
failed. The war will end soon. Not this year, certainly, nor the next, but soon, and when it does,
Hitlerwillsufferdefeat.

Once, I thought he would be a useful tool. I was mistaken. His hatred is too narrow and

narcissistictoaccommodatealargevision.

Inthemeantime,wehavemanagedtodiverttheenergiesofhismunitionsscientistsintofruitless

efforts.Theywillnotsucceedinmakinganuclearbombintheforeseeablefuture.InAmerica,by
wayofcontrast,ourmeninNewMexicoreportthatprogressontheAmericans’atomicweaponry
goeswell.IwillbeinterestedtoseeagainstwhichenemytheAllieswilldeployit.

AftertheendofhostilitiesIwillinitiateanewkindofattack.Iwilluseeconomicsasaweapon

andattempttodebilitatethedespoilerswiththeirownfavoriteinstrument.

Thatisinthefuture.ForthenextseveralyearswewillremaininSwitzerland.TheAustrianis

not likely to violate this nation’s neutrality, which means my retinue and I will remain in these
mountainsfortheduration.Weareundisturbedhereandtheplacepleasesme.Itiscleanandpure
andwhenIbreathethechill,bracingairIamremindedofwhataparadisetheearthoncewasand
willbeagain,andIampromptedtoredoublemyefforts.

Lastnight,thewomanwhoismycurrentconsortgavebirthtoafemale.Iamamethodicalman

andIkeeprecords.Thus,IknowthatIhavenowsiredfourhundredandfourteenchildren,allof
themexcepttwofemale.Thetwowhoweremale,HectorandClaudius,bothdiedbeforetheirfirst
birthdays.

ItisasourceofthegreatestvexationtomethatIhavebeenunabletoproduceahealthymale

child.

Iamamanofrationalityandscience.Idonotbelieveincurses.ButattimesIthinkIamcursed.

Imusthaveason.

ater,Brucewouldcometounderstandthepowerofmyth:howthoseancientstoriescoulddeepenand

amplify—anddistortandfalsify—humanexperience.Itwastobeoneofmanylessonshelearnedfrom
Rā’salGhūl.Butthatwaslater.Atthemoment,though,heslouchedinadeskchairinamidwestern
classroom,staringoutthewindowandwonderingifthebaldstickofaprofessor,whowaswearinga

tweed jacket even though it was July and this hundred-year-old university could not afford to air-
condition its buildings, would ever finish his drone. On and on went the professor, about Jungian
archetypes and monomyths and other stuff that Bruce considered absolutely nonessential to any
conceivablelifehemightwanttolead,ifnotplainstupid.Today’stopic,theprofhadannouncedina
voicethatevenhehadtoknowwassomniferous,waslossofinnocenceasexemplifiedbythebiblical
AdamandEvetaleandtheBuddhistlegendofSiddhartha’sfirstexitfromhisfather’sestate.

Hohum,Brucethought.Hehadreadthematerialtheprofhadassignedandseveralotherbookson

the subject, too; all of which presented the material more cogently than the prof, and none of which
interestedhim.

Hevowedtohimselfthathewouldnever,neverwastehistimeinaliberalartscourseagain.Hehad

signedupforthisoneasanexperimentandtheexperimentwasacolossalbust.Hedroppedhisgazeto
thegoldRolexonhiswrist.Wouldthispurgatoryeverend?

Twentyminuteslater,ithad,andBrucewaswalkingacrossaquadrangletowardtheclocktowerin

thecenterofthecampuswherehehadpromisedtomeetthecutegirlfromhisadvancedcalculusclass.
He would lend her his notes and she would buy him coffee—that was their deal. To his surprise, he
found that his mind kept returning to the class he had just finished enduring and specifically to the
Siddhartha story. There were several versions: the simplest of them related how a prince, scion of a
wealthyNepalesefamily,hadbeenshelteredfromtheharshnessofrealityuntilonedayhehadlefthis
father’sgroundsandencounteredasickman,anoldman,andacorpse.Theseencounterssoupsetthe
youngprincethathevowedtolivealifeofdenialuntilhecouldmakesenseofthem.

SuddenlyBrucestoppedinmidstrideasherealized,astonished,thatheidentifiedwithSiddhartha.

Andthenherememberedthegardenbehindhisparents’mansion.Ofcourse,hedidnotknowitwasa

“mansion,” not until years later, after his parents had died. It was just “indoors” as the garden was
“outdoors,” and they were all he had ever known, apart from Mother, Father, and funny old Alfred.
Duringhisfourthbirthdayparty,Mother,Father,andAlfredbroughtotherchildrenintothehouse,alot
ofotherchildren,whoyelledandranaroundandgavehimpresents.Heknewhewassupposedtolike
them,buthecouldn’t.Exceptforone.ShewasalittletallerthanBruceandsheworeayellowdressand
white shoes and in her hair, a yellow ribbon. She didn’t yell and run like the others. Her name was
Rachelandshewasnice.

Rachel, his mother explained, lived in the staff housing near the manor, wherever that was, and

Rachel’smotherwastheWaynes’housekeeper.MothersaidthatifBrucewantedtoplaywithher,she
couldcomeandvisithimoften.ThatwasokaywithBruce.

Overthenextthreeyears,Brucehadwhathismothercalled“playdates”withotherkids,including

somehesecretlywishedwouldstayaway,butRachelwasthefriendhesawthemost.Sometimes,they
would go to where she lived, which seemed very strange to Bruce, full of different smells and old
furniture, but mostly they played at Bruce’s. Together, they explored every room and then ventured
outside.Once,theyaskediftheycouldplayintheguesthouse,nearthefrontgate,whereMotherand
Fathersometimesentertainedfriendsoverweekends,butMotherthoughtthatwasnotsuchagoodidea.
But they could pretty much go anywhere else on the grounds, as long as they stayed within the high
fences.

The garden, which Bruce had once thought stretched to the ends of the earth, now seemed quite

negotiable, and when he and Rachel dared to venture beyond the gate, they discovered that the big,
silverythingtheyhadseenfromafarwasactuallyasmallbuildingmadeofglass.Alfredsaiditwasa

“greenhouse,” where his mother and father grew plants. Usually, the greenhouse door was locked but
today,thisbrightwarm,breezydayinmid-June,Alfredhadleftitajar.Cautiously,handinhand,Bruce
and Rachel entered. Bruce stopped just inside the door, released Rachel’s hand, and looked around at
rowsoftablescoveredwithpottedplantsandtoolshehadneverseenbefore.Thereweremoreplants
hangingfromtheslopingceilingandlumpybagsonthefloor.Brucewashotandsweatyandathick,
heavyodorcloggedhisnostrils.Hedidn’tlikethis“greenhouse”atall.

Rachelhadgoneaheadofhimandwascrawlingunderoneofthelongtables.Shecrawledbackout

andpeeredupatBruce,hersmallhandheldoverherheadandclosedaroundsomething.Bruceknew
thatshehadfoundsomething,somekindoftreasure,maybe.

“CanIsee?”heasked.

“Finder’skeepers,”Rachelsaid,smiling.“Ifoundit.”

“Inmygreenhouse.”

Rachel’s smile changed to a frown and for a second or two she seemed to be thinking. She smiled

again and opened her hand. A stone arrowhead lay on her palm. Bruce wondered how it had gotten
there,underthetable,butnotforlong.Hegrabbedit,stuffeditintoapocket,andranoutthenearest
doortohide.

Bruceranontoasmallpatchofgroundenclosedbyalowfence.Inthecenterwasalow,roundwell.

KnowingthatRachelwasfollowinghimandwantingtoimpressher—hedidn’tknowwhy—Bruce

climbed up onto the top of the well. The hole inside was covered with green-painted boards that had
splintersofyellowshowing:oldboards.Slowly,Bruceclimbedontopofthewood.

Then he heard a creaking sound and the world seemed to tilt and the stone wall of the well was

rushingpasthiseyes.

Hejusthadtimetorealizehewasfallingbeforehestoppedsosuddenlythathisteethclickedandfor

amomenthecouldnotbreathe.Thenhegaspedandfilledhislungswithair.Fromsomewhereabove
him,heheardRachelscreaming:“MisterAlfred!”

Helookedupandsawtheopeningofthewell,acircleoflightfar,farabove.Glancingbackdown,he

sawthathehadlandedonapileofdirtandrubble.Heputhispalmsonthecoldstonewallandslowly,
wonderingifhehadbrokenanything,hestood.Hewastremblingandawareofanastyscrapeonone
knee,buthisbodyfeltbasicallyallright.

IcanreallyshowRachelhowbraveIam,hethought.Icanfindawayoutofhereand—

Heheardasoundlikeadoorwithveryrustyhingesbeingopened.Itseemed,tobecomingfroma

gapinthestones.Heputhisfacetotheblackopening,hopingtoseethesourceofthesound—

Something stiff and scratchy rasped across his forehead and in an instant he realized—he did not

knowhow—thatthethingwasalive.

Thething,thedark,horriblething,flewfromthegapandspiraledupwardandwasfollowedbyother

things, a swarm, of them, hundreds of them, flapping and screeching, tearing at Bruce’s clothing and
hair.Bats,herealized,andBrucefelthimself,hispersonality,hisverybeing,shrinkandvanishandonly
avoicethatshriekedandshriekedremained...

Thenthebatsweregone.Theshriekingstopped.Brucelayatopthedirt,gaspingandsobbing.

He heard someone call his name, and when he looked up, he saw his father, wearing a long black

coat,climbingdownarope.

Strong arms enveloped him and he felt himself being lifted, and raised, and then his father was

carrying him past the greenhouse, toward the mansion, with Alfred trotting alongside. Rachel walked
nexttothem,crying.HermotherputherarmsaroundRacheltocomforther.

“Willyoubeneedinganambulance,MasterWayne?”Alfredasked.

“Wehaveeverythingweneed,”Bruce’sfatherreplied.“I’lltakeX-rayslater.”

“Verygood,sir.”

Smiling, Bruce held his hand out to Rachel. When she moved next to him, he gently placed the

arrowheadinheropenpalm.LookingupatBruce,asmallsmileappearedonRachel’stearstainedface.

AfewminuteslaterBrucewasintheroomhisfathercalled“theoffice,”beingcradledinMother’s

softarmswhileFather,hissleevesrolledupandhistieloosened,examinedBruce’sscrapesandbruises.
Brucewasstillcrying,butonlyalittle.

“There, there,” Mother cooed. “Everything is all right, Bruce. Everything is fine. Nothing like that

willeverhappentoyouagain,Ipromise.”

FatherfinishedhisministrationsandMotherledBruceuptohisroom.

Thenextmorningheawoketoseehisfatherstandingoverhim.

“Youweregettingkindofnoisyinyoursleep,”Fathersaid.“Baddream?”

Brucenodded.

“Thebats?”Fathersatonthesideofthebed.“Youknowwhytheyattackedyou?Theywereafraidof

you.”

“Afraidofme?”

“You’realotbiggerthanabat,aren’tyou?Allcreaturesfeelfear.”

“Eventhescaryones?”

“Especiallythescaryones.”

Standingundertheclocktoweronthemidwesterncampus,waitingforthecutegirlfromadvanced

calculus, Bruce understood his identification with Siddhartha. Falling down the well, Bruce had, like
Siddhartha,passedthroughagate,albeitametaphoricalone.Beforehistumble,hehadheardtheword
“fear” and similar words like “scared” and “afraid” and “dread” . . . but they were only words.
Afterward,despitehismother’scomfortingandhisfather’sdeftattentions,Bruceknew,tothemarrow
ofhisbeing,what“fear”was.Withinaweek,hewastoadd“hate”and“grief”tohislexicon.

FROMTHEJOURNALSOFRĀ’SALGHŪL

Mydaughter,whoisuncommonlymatureforherage,lastnighttoldmethatIama“self-appointed
messiah.” She meant it as an affront. I startled her by choosing to accept it as a compliment.
Actually,itisneitheraffrontnorcompliment,butsomethingfargreater.Itisthesimpletruth.

Wehaveprosecutedournewestexperimentfortwoandthree-quartersyearsusingGothamCity

in the United States as our place of experimentation. Our results are inconclusive. We have
destabilized the business life of the city but have not destroyed it. A savior, in the form of a
wealthydoctor,hascometotherescue.Wouldsimilarsaviorsappearelsewhere?Icannotdiscount
thepossibility.

IhavebeguntoconcludethateconomicsisnottheweaponIhopeditwouldbeandthatImust

seekanother.Idonotknowwheretosearch.

CHAPTERTWO

heywere“goingtotheopera”andBruceknewfromthewayhisparentswereactingthat“goingto

theopera”wasspecial—thekindofeventFathercalled“abigdeal.”Brucehadonlyadimnotionof
whatan“opera”was,andwhatlittlehedidknowhehadlearnedfromMissDaisy,theblond,motherly
womanwhocametothehousefivedaysaweektoteachhim.Bruceknewthathisparentsdisagreed
about Miss Daisy because he had overheard them arguing. Father wanted Bruce to attend a regular
publicschool.HeusedwordsBrucewasunfamiliarwith,wordslike“pampered”and“overprotected.”
MotherrepliedthattherewasnopublicschoolanywherenearWayneManorandtodriveBruceintothe
citywouldbeahardshiponwhoeverhadtodoit.Finally,theycompromised:Brucewouldbe“home
schooled”untilhewasateenager,atwhichtimehewouldgotoMarkTwainHighSchoolinOssaville,
atownthatwas,apparently,closerthanGotham.

Meanwhile,MothertaughtBrucegeographyandarithmeticeverymorninguntillunch,andfromone

tothreeMissDaisytaughthimhistoryandEnglish.ItwasduringoneoftheirEnglishhoursthatMiss
Daisyhadexplainedopera.

“It’s a story, but with music. People sing instead of speak. They use music to make what they’re

sayingmoreemotional.”

That sounded kind of interesting to Bruce. Not exciting, but kind of interesting, so he was looking

forward,sortof,toattendingtheoperawithhisparents.

Fatherworeablacksuitandblackbowtieandasnowywhiteshirt—whathecalledhis“tux”—and

Mother had on an elegant short black dress. Bruce stood in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom,
watchingMotherdabrougeonhercheeks.

“Help me a second, Tom?” she called and Father joined her and circled her neck with a string of

pearls. He snapped a catch into place, took his wife by the shoulders, spun her around, and said,
“Gorgeous!”

Mothersmiledandkissedhimonthecheek.

Brucesmiled,too.Helikeditwhenhisparentswerenicetoeachother.

Thethreeofthemdescendedthewide,curvingstaircasetowhereAlfredwaswaitinginthefoyer.

“Wewon’tneedyoutonight,”Fathertoldhim.

“Ah, that’s right,” Alfred said. “You’re riding the monorail. But might I take you to the station,

MasterWayne?”

“Nothanks.Ifeellikedriving.”

They went in the “smaller car”—a Lincoln, Bruce had heard his father say—down the winding

driveway,outontothemainroad,pastseveralsmallclustersofstoresandhousestoalotwhichwaslit
bytall,bluishlampsoncurvedstands.Therewerealreadyseveralcarsinthelot,neatlyparkedbetween

whitelines.FatherstoppedtheLincolnneararowofstepsthatledtoaplatform.

TheWayneswentupthesteps,MotherholdingBruce’slefthandandFatherholdinghisrighthand.

Severalotherpeoplewerealreadyontheplatform,whichwasalongsideametalrail,gleaminginthe
bluelight.Fatherglancedathiswatch.“Thetrainshouldarriveinaboutaminute,”hesaid.

Brucesawaroundlightcomingdowntherailandasitapproached,hecouldseethatitwasonthe

frontofavehicleofsomekind.Therewasarumbleandthetrainstoppedinfrontofthem.Doorsslid
openwithasofthissandtheWaynesenteredthetraincarandfoundseats.Anotherhiss,anothermuted
rumble, and Bruce was watching the sights of Gotham City speed past the window. He had been to
GothamCitybefore,ofcourse,withhisparentsandAlfredandoncewithMissDaisy.Buthehadnever
seenitashewasseeingitnow.Onthoseearliervisits,Gothamhadseemedtobenothingbutwallsand
carsandlightsandconfusion.Hehadneverthoughttolookup,atthetopsofthebuildings,andsohe
hadneverrealizedhowtalltheywere—talland,inawayBrucecouldnotquiteunderstand,impressive.
Looking out the train window, Bruce began to get an idea of what the city actually was, and it both
fascinatedandfrightenedhim.

“Yourfatherbuiltthistrain,”MothertoldBruce.

“Notexactly,”Fathersaid.“Ididn’tactuallybuildit—”

“Well,youpaidforit,”Mothersaid.

“ThatI’mguiltyof,”FathersaidtoBruce.“Kindofafamilytradition.Yourgreat-grandfatherbuilt

thefirsttrainsinGotham.Thecity’sbeengoodtoourfamily,butnowthecity’ssuffering.Peopleless
fortunatethanusareenduringveryhardtimes.Sowebuiltanew,cheappublictransportationsystemto
uniteallofGotham.”

“Andatthecenterofit,”Motheradded,“isWayneTower.”

“Isthatwhereyouwork?”Bruceasked.

“No,”Fathersaid.“Iworkatthehospital.Ileavetherunningofthecompanytobettermen.”

“Better?”

“Well...moreinterestedmen.”

Thetrainslowed.Motherpointedoutthewindowtoagiganticbuildingthatseemedtostretchtothe

sky.“WayneTower,”shesaid.

Thetrainslidbeneatharoof,hissed,stopped.“Hereweare,”Fathersaid.

TheWaynesleftthetrainandwalkedamongacrowdofcommuters,beneathavaultedceiling,and

wentthroughawidedoortoacoveredwalkwaythatspannedtheareabetweenthestationandthetower.
Brucesawasignintheformofanarrowthatread:

TOOPERAHOUSE.

The Waynes walked toward where the arrow pointed, Bruce’s hands again folded into his parents’.

Theywentupanescalator,throughahallwaywithredfabriconthewallsandthickredcarpetonthe
floor,andpassedthroughadoor.Fatherhandedthreeticketstoaprettyyoungwomanwhoglancedat
them,smiled,andledtheWaynesdownanaisletoarowofseatsonlyashortdistancefromastagethat
was partially covered by a red velvet curtain. They sat in cushioned chairs and Bruce looked up at a
gigantic chandelier, even bigger than the one they had at home, and to the left and right and behind
himself,atrowuponrowofmenandwomendressedlikeMotherandFather.Brucesawnochildren;
apparently,hewastheonlyoneintheplace,whichmadehimfeelabitfunny.Therewasafunnysmell
in the air that reminded Bruce of Mother’s closet and the backseat of the family limousine. The

operagoerswererustlingastheyshiftedintheirseats,gettingcomfortable,andmurmuringinthevoices
thatpeopleusedinlibraries.

FatherleanedovertoMotherandwhispered,“Iforgottoask.Whatareweseeing,anyway?”

“Mefistofele,”Mothersaid,“byBoito.”

“French?”

Mothernodded.

“Anygood?”

“Excellent.”

“Okay,”Fathersaid,andleanedbackinhischair.Brucesawabunchofmenfileintoanareabelow

thestageandpickupmusicalinstruments:musicians,herealized.

AminutelaterthemusiciansbegantoplaymusicthatsoundedmuchlikewhatMotherlistenedtoin

thesunroom,andtheredcurtainrose,andBrucewaslookingatwomendressedlikeHalloweenwitches
—wearing costumes, as Miss Daisy predicted—singing and cavorting around the stage. Bruce knew
theywereonlyperformers,peoplelikehimselfwhohappenedtobeabletosingandwhosefaceswere
coveredwithsomekindofpaint.Buttohim,theyseemedreal,morerealthantheunpaintedaudience
membersaroundhim.Thenbatsdroppedfromabove,hungfromwires,theirblackwingsflapping,and
begantocircleoverthewitches’heads...

Brucestaredatthebats.

Andhewasagainatthebottomofthewellandthescreechingbatswereexplodingfromthecrevice

andtearingathim...

Hewasbeingsilly,hetoldhimself.Hewasnotinthewell,hewasinatheater; watching a—what

hadMissDaisysaid?—astory,anopera,andtherewasnothingtobeafraidof...

Buthecouldnotcontrolhisterror.

“Sweetheart,what’swrong?”Mothersaid,herfaceinchesfromBruce’s.

Brucewasgasping,unabletocatchhisbreath,andhecouldnotanswerhismother...

Finally,hewasabletoask,“Canwego?”

MotherlookedoverBruce’sheadatFather,givinghimaquestioninglook,andFathersaid,“Iguess

we’dbetter.”

Father stood and held Bruce’s hand and said, “Take it easy, champ.” Then the three of them were

movingacrossthecarpetanddownthestairsandoutontothestreet.

“We’lljusttakeafewminutestogetsomefreshair,”Fathersaidand,squeezingBruce’shand,added,

“Abitofoperagoesalongway,right,Bruce?”

BrucelookedupatFatherandFatherwinked.“Whatsaywetakealittlewalk?”

Brucenoddedyes.

“Comeon,”Fathersaid.

Then, in the shadow cast by Wayne Tower, Bruce saw something move and a moment later a man

steppedfromthedarknessandapproachedthem.Hewastallandyoung,dressedindirtyclothes.His
facewasthinandscared,andhewaspointingsomethingatthemthatgleamedinthelightofanearby
streetlamp.

“Wallet,jewelry—fast!”themansaid.

“That’sfine,justtakeiteasy,”Fathersaid,steppingbetweenthemanandhisfamily.Heshruggedout

ofhisovercoatandhandedittoBruce.

“Hurryup,”themansaid.

Fathertookhiswalletfrombeneathhisjacketandextendedit.“Hereyougo,”hesaid.

Themangrabbedatthewalletwithashakinghandandmissed,andthewalletfell.

“It’sfine,it’sfine,”Fathersaid,inthesametoneofvoicehehadusedwhenhepulledBrucefromthe

well.

The man knelt on the pavement and groped for the wallet. Bruce recognized the object he was

pointingupatFatherfrompictureshehadseeninthenewspaper:agun.

Thegunwasshaking.

Themanretrievedthewalletandshoveditintoapocket.“Justtakeitandgo,”Fathersaid.

ThemanstoodandshiftedhisgazetoMother.“Isaidjewelry,too.”

Motherbegantopulloffherdiamondengagementring.Fathertookasteptowardtheman.“Hey,just

—”

Bruce saw the gun twitch and in the same instant he heard a sound like two boards being slapped

together.Puzzled,heturnedtohisfatherforanexplanation.Fatherwasstaringdownataredsplotchon
hissnowywhiteshirtthatspreadoutwardfromasmall,blackhole.

Fathercrumpled,asthoughallhisboneshaddissolvedatonce.

Mother screamed. The man reached for the strand of pearls around her neck. Mother pulled back

fromhimandthemansaid,“Givemethedamn—”

Theguntwitchedandtherewastheslappingboardsoundagain.Themancurledhisfingersaround

the pearl necklace and yanked and the necklace broke. Pearls spilled past Bruce’s face and clattered
lightlyonthepavement.

Brucestaredupattheman’seyes.Themanjerked,asthoughhehadbeenstung,andhespunandran

intotheshadows.

Foralongtime,Brucestaredathisfather’sface.Heheardagroanandbentdownsothathisfacewas

closetoFather’s.

“Don’tbeafraid,”Fatherwhispered.HesmiledatBruce,thenclosedhiseyes.Brucesatamongthe

bloodstainedpearls.Somethingbegantoswellwithinhim.Hehadnoideawhatitwas,justthatitwas
somehowconnectedtohisparentsandthathehadtokeepitincheck...hadto.

Awhilelaterapolicemancame,andthenmorepolicemen,andsomeofthemputMotherandFather

intobagsandloadedthemintotherearofanambulance.Someone,Brucedidnotknowwho,tookhim
inacartoabigbuilding.Therewasacrowdonthesidewalkinfrontofthebuilding,andsomeofthem
snapped pictures as Bruce passed by. Bruce, still clutching his father’s overcoat, went inside and was
ledtoachair.Hesat,andwaited,andfelthimselfbecomingnumballover,insideandoutside,except
for the swelling thing in his chest. He wondered if everyone had forgotten about him and decided he
didn’tcareiftheyhad.Afterawhile,heseemedtoleavehisbodyandwatchitfromsomewhereelse—
notanyparticularplace,justsomewhereelse.

Ahandonhisshoulderjerkedhimbackinsidehisbody.

“Youokay,son?”

Brucesawthatthehandbelongedtoatall,ruddymanwhosehairandmustachewerethickandblack

andwhoseblueeyeswerewarmandkind.

“I’m Jim Gordon,” the man said. “You need anything? A sandwich? Soda?” He gestured to the

overcoatinBruce’shands.“Isthatyourfather’s?”

Brucenodded.GordongentlytookthecoatanddrapeditoverBruce’sshoulders.

Another man, wearing an officer’s uniform, approached and said loudly, “Gordon! You gotta stick

yournoseintoeverything!”

JimGordonturnedtothemanintheuniformandstared,notsayingathing.

“Get outta my sight,” the uniformed officer commanded. Gordon touched Bruce’s shoulder again,

thenspunonhisheelandstalkedaway.

ThemankneltinfrontofBruceandsaid,“Myname’sCaptainLoeb,kid,andIgotsomegoodnews

foryou.Wegothim.”

“Got...who?”Brucemurmured.

“Whodoyouthink?JoeChill.Theskelthaticedyourfolks.”

The man’s words were English, yet it was as though he were speaking a foreign language. Bruce

understoodthewords,buthecouldnotgrasptheirmeaning.Sohejustsatandfeltthethinginsidehim
continueswellinguntilitfilledhim,andhisownskinwasjustathincoveringoverit,agarmenthewas
wearing like the opera singers’ costumes, and after a while it became him. It was the real Bruce.
Everythingelsewasfalse.

Detective Jim Gordon got home late that night, but Barbara had put his meal in the oven to keep it
warm.Hekissedhersoundlyandatetheporkchopsandmashedpotatoesshehadprepared.Inthesix
monthstheyhadbeenmarried,BabshadnotonceneglectedtomakeahotdinnerforherJimmy.

Afterward,theywatchedthelatenewsontelevision.Astheywerepreparingforbed,Barbarasaid,

“Something’swrong.”

“It’snothing.”

“Yesitis.Tellme.”

HetoldheraboutthekillingoftheWaynesandthefrightenedlittleboywhohadbeenorphanedbyit.

HetoldheraboutLoebandhowLoebhadtreatedyoungBruce.

“Loebisthewholedamndepartment,”heconcluded.“He’snottheexception,he’stherule.”

“You’rethinkingaboutChicago?”

“The offer’s still in place, but it won’t be forever. So yeah, I’m thinking about it. I know it’d be a

pain,movingawayfromyourfamilyandfriends...”

Barbarawassittingontheedgeofthemattress,herslenderbodytense.“Yes.Yes,itwould.”

“Well,wedon’thavetodecidetonight.”

Barbararolledontoherbackandpulledtheblanketuptoherchin.

Two days later, at a plot of unused land behind the greenhouse, Bruce watched as coffins containing
MotherandFatherwereloweredintotwooblongholes.Someofthemournerswerecryingsoftlyanda
few of them looked at Bruce, as though trying to gauge his feelings. He wanted to cry, he really did,
becauseherealizedthattearswereexpectedand,moreimportant,appropriate.Sohebowedhishead,
butnotearswouldcome.Thethinginsidehim,thethingthatfilledhisbody,wouldnotallowcrying.

Acrowdofpeople,allofwhomhadspokencondolencestoBruce,begantowalkslowlyawayfrom

thegravesite.BrucestoodbesideAlfreduntilthecoffinswereoutofsightandthenturnedtowardthe
mansion.Itstartedtorain,andthewindwascold.

“There’ssomeonewhowouldlikeawordwithyou,MasterBruce,”Alfredsaid,andescortedBruce

tothedrivewayinfrontofthemansion.AtallmaninwhatBrucerecognizedasacashmereovercoat
stoodnexttoablackcar—aRolls-Royce,Bruceknew.

“ThisisMr.Earle,”AlfredsaidtoBruce,andMr.EarlesmiledandreacheddowntoshakeBruce’s

hand.

“Pleasedtomeetyou,”Brucesaid.

“Iwantyoutoknowthatyou’reinexcellenthands,”Mr.Earlesaid,noddingatAlfred,“andwe’re

mindingtheempire.Whenyou’reallgrownup,it’llbewaitingforyou.”

BruceunderstoodnoneofwhatMr.Earlehadtoldhim,butthankedhimanyway.

Mr.EarleduckedintotheRolls-RoyceandAlfredledBruceintothemansion.

Brucetookoffhiscoatandwenttohisfavoritewindow,thebigonethatlookedoutonthedrive.He

peeredattherain,nowheavyandbeatingagainstthewindowpanes,andatthemourners,hunchedinthe
rainandwind,foldingumbrellasastheygotintotheircars.Rachelwalkedpast,glancedup,andwaved
toBruce.Brucehesitated,thenreturnedthewave.

FromthedoorwaybehindBruce,Alfredsaid,“IthoughtI’dpreparealittlesupper.”

Brucecontinuedtostareoutofthewindow.

“Verywell,”Alfredsaid.“I’llleaveyoutoyourthoughts.”

SuddenlyBrucefelttheurgetospeakswellingwithinhimandwithoutknowingwhathewasgoingto

say,heblurted,“Itwasmyfault,Alfred.They’redeadanditwasmyfault.”

AlfredhurriedacrosstheroomandkneltinfrontofBruce.“MasterBruce...”

“Imadethemleavethetheater.”

AlfredputhisarmsaroundBruce.“Oh,no,no,no...”

“IfIhadn’tgottenscared—”

“No, no, Master Bruce. Nothing you did—nothing anyone ever did—can excuse that man. It’s his

faultandhisalone.Doyouunderstand?”

Bruce pressed his face into Alfred’s chest and for the first time he sobbed. “I miss them, Alfred. I

missthemsomuch.”

“SodoI,MasterBruce.SodoI.”

CHAPTERTHREE

twasthedayafterBruce’stwentiethbirthday,ayearandahalfafterhe’dstoodbeneathaclockand

waited for a cute girl who never arrived, and six months after he had completed an advanced race-
drivingcourseinwesternMissouri,whichhehadreallyenjoyed.Hestoodatthefrontofthefirstcarof
the monorail train, swaying, enjoying the spectacle of Gotham City rushing past—the many-colored
roofs, the tiny side streets and wide avenues, the millions of windows gleaming in the morning
sunshine. The train slowed, stopped. Bruce picked up his duffel bag, swung it over his shoulder, and
steppedontotheplatform.HesawAlfredatthefarendoftheplatformandwaved.

“Youdidn’thavetopickmeup,”hesaidasAlfredapproached.“Icouldhavetransferredtothered

line—”

“I’m afraid not, Master Bruce. The red line . . . well, it’s closed. Apparently Mr. Earle thought it

wasn’tmakingenoughmoney.”

BrucefollowedAlfredthroughastationhebarelyrecognized.Hisfather’ssplendidachievementhad

become shabby: cracked glass, chipped marble, men and women huddled against the walls, some of
themnexttofiresbuiltintrashcans,othershuddledbyshoppingcartsfilledwithragsandbottles.

“HowisMr.Earle?”Bruceasked.

“Oh...successful.”

TheyleftthestationandBrucelookedupatWayneTower,gleaminginthesun,magnificentasever.

Afewminuteslater,drivingthroughstart-and-stoprush-hourtraffic,AlfredguidedtheRolls-Royce

uptheWalnutStreetrampandontothefreeway.

“Willyoubeheadingbacktotheuniversitytomorrow?”Alfredasked.“OrcouldIpersuadeyouto

spendanextranightortwo?”

“I’mnotheadingbackatall,”Brucereplied.

“Youdon’tlikeitthere?”

“Ilikeitfine.Theyjustdon’tfeelthesameway.”

Brucesmiledandsettledbackinhisseat.Theyhadleftthecityandwereproceedingalongacountry

lane,pasttallelmsandoaks,theirfoliagegloriousthisfineNovembermorning,and,everyhalfmileor
so,pastaclusterofbuildingsthatincludedabighouse.

Alfred slowed the car and pressed a button on the dashboard. The gates that fronted the Wayne

propertyswungopenandAlfreddrovepasttheguesthouseandupacurveddrivewaytothemansion.

Brucegotoutofthecarandstoodstaringatthehugeoldhome.Afteraminute,hefollowedAlfred

inside.WayneManorwasnotasherememberedit.Theplacewascleanandstarkand,althoughAlfred
had kept everything preserved, there was a musty smell in the air. White dust cloths covered the
furniture,andallthepaintingsandpictureswerecoveredwithwhitepaper.

“I’vepreparedthemasterbedroom,”Alfredsaid.

“Myoldroomwillbefine,”Brucesaid.

“Withallduerespect,sir,yourfatherisdead.WayneManorisyourhouse.”

Bruceallowedirritationintohisvoice.“No,Alfred,thisisn’tmyhouse.It’samausoleum.Areminder

ofeverythingIlost.AndwhenIhavemyway,I’llpullthedamnthingdown,brickbybrick.”

“Thishouse,MasterWayne,hashousedsixgenerationsoftheWaynefamily.”

“Whydoyougiveadamn?It’snotyourfamily,Alfred.”

“I give a damn, sir, because a good man once made me responsible for what was most precious to

himinthewholeworld.”

BrucestaredatAlfred,andnodded.

“MissDaweshasofferedtodriveyoutothehearing,bytheway.”

Bruceraisedaneyebrow.“Rachel?Why?”

“Sheprobablywantstotalkyououtofgoing.”

Brucegesturedtothewindowandthegroundsbehindthegreenhouse.“ShouldIjustburythepast

outtherewithmyparents,Alfred?”

“Idon’tpresumetotellyouwhattodowithyourpast,sir.Justknowthattherearethoseofuswho

carewhatyoudowithyourfuture.”

“Stillhaven’tgivenuponmeyet?”

“Never.”Alfredsaidthewordasthoughitwereavow.

Bruceclimbedthestaircaseandenteredhisroom.Ithadn’tchangedmuch.Thechildhoodtoyswere

goneaswerethebedspreadandpillowsfestoonedwithcartooncharacters.Buthishighschoolpennant
andthepictureofhisgraduatingclasswerestillonthewall.Hedroppedhisbagontothebed.Breathing
deeply,helookedataphotographonthemantelpiece:youngBruce,onhisdad’sshoulders,armsraised
intriumph.Hisfather’sstethoscopelaybeneaththephotograph.ItwasthesamestethoscopeFatherhad
heldtoBruce’schestaftertheincidentwiththebats.Brucesmiled.Hereturnedtothebedandopened
hisbag.Reachinginside,pastawadofT-shirts,heremovedanautomaticpistolandacardboardbox
fullofnine-millimetercartridges.Hedumpedthemagazinefromthegunand,withsteadyhands,began
insertingbulletsintoit.

Heheardacarengineonthedriveoutsideandfootstepsonthewalk.Hefinishedloadingthegun,

stuffeditintohisbelt,andputonacashmereovercoathehadneverbeforeworn,aChristmasgiftfrom
WayneEnterprises.

He left his room and descended the rear staircase to the kitchen. A young woman in her early

twenties,withafacethatmixedcutewithbeautifulandwasenormouslyattractivebecauseofit,stood
justinsidethepantry,runningherfingersovershelvesofcansandboxes.ThiswasRachelandshewas
notwhatBrucewasexpecting.Alltheseyears,hehadcarriedtheimageofRachelasascabby-kneed,
frecklychild—Rachelashehadlastseenher.ThisRachel,thisgraveyoungwoman,wasdefinitelynot
thatchild.Sheworeacamelovercoatoveranaquamarinetopandblackskirt,andjustahintofmakeup.
Shewasdevastatinglyattractive.

“Hello,”Brucesaid.“Bytheway,Alfredstillkeepsthecondensedmilkonthetopshelf.”

“Hasn’thenoticedthatyou’retallenoughtoreach,now?”

“Oldhabitsdiehard,Iguess.”

Rachelgrinned.“Neverusedtostopus,anyway.”

“No,noitdidn’t.”

“YoustilltryingtogetkickedoutoftheentireIvyLeague?”

Bruce shook his head. “Turns out you don’t actually need a degree to do the international playboy

thing.Butyou...headofyourclassatlawschool,editorofthelawreview,andnowassistantatthe
D.A.’soffice...quitetheoverachiever.”

Rachelshrugged.Afterawhileshesaid,“Imissthisplace.”

“It’snothingwithoutthepeoplewhomadeitwhatitwas.Nowthere’sonlyAlfred.”

RachelsteppedclosetoBruceandlookedupintohiseyes.“Andyou?”

“I’mnotstaying,Rachel.”

“Oh. I thought maybe this time . . . but you’re just back for the hearing? Bruce, I don’t suppose

there’sanywayIcanconvinceyounottocome.”

Brucestoppedsmilingandturnedawayfromher.“Someoneatthisproceedingshouldstandformy

parents.”

“Bruce,wealllovedyourparents.WhatChilldidwasunforgivable—”

“Thenwhyisyourbosslettinghimgo?”

“Because in prison he shared a cell with Carmine Falcone. He learned things and he’ll testify in

exchangeforearlyparole.”

“Notgoodenough,Rachel.”

Rachellookedaway.

“Areyoustillgoodforaridetothecourthouse?”Bruceasked.

“Ofcourse.”

BrucepassedtherideintoGothamCitystaringoutatametallicblueskythatspreadabovethecity’s

spires.HeandRachelwerebothsilent,whichwasfinewithBruce.

Rachelleftthefreewayand,aminutelater,turnedintoablacktoppedlotandparkedtheHondaina

slotwithhernamestenciledonit.

Brucetouchedhershoulderandsaid,“Rachel,thismankilledmyparents.Icannotletthatpass.”

Rachelopenedhermouthtosaysomething,thenapparentlychangedhermindandmerelyshrugged.

Brucespokemoreurgentlynow:“Rachel,Ineedyoutounderstand.”

RachelstudiedBruce’sfaceasthoughseekinganswersthere.Finally,shenoddedandsilentlyopened

thecardoor.Bruce,too,gotoutofthecar,kneltquickly,slippedthegunoutfromunderhisovercoat,
andsliditbehindthefrontwheelofthecar.

BrucestoodandlookedoveratRachel,whowasgivinghimaquestioninglook.“Shoelace,”hesaid.

Bruce followed Rachel through a side entrance into Gotham’s Central Courthouse, a rambling old

pseudo-RomanbuildingerectedjustaftertheCivilWarbyoneofBruce’sancestorsandrefurbishedby
his father twenty-two years ago. They ascended a flight of marble steps to a small chamber on the
secondfloor.Afive-personpanelsatatalongtableatthefrontoftheroom—fourmenand,sittingin
themiddle,JudgeFaden,aheavysetmanwithredhair.Fourothermensatatatablefacingthem.Bruce

tookachairneartherearwallasRachelcontinuedtothegroupoffourand,smilingagreeting,joined
them.

Brucewaitedwhileothers,menandwomeninbusinessattire,filteredinandsat.Tenminutespassed.

Finally, from a rear door, a red-haired cop entered with a tall man whom Bruce recognized instantly,
althoughhehadseenthemanonlyoncebefore,fourteenyearsearlier,onacoldNovembernightinthe
shadowofWayneTower.JoeChill’sfacewasevenmorepainedandhishairhadthinnedslightly,butin
allotherways,hehadnotchanged.

“Weallknowwhywe’rehere,”saidJudgeFaden.“Mr.Finch,wouldyouliketobegin?”

AhandsomemaninadarksuitwhowassittingnexttoRachelstoodandaddressedthepanel.“The

depression hit working people like Mr. Chill hardest of all. His crime was appalling, but it was
motivatednotbygreedbutbydesperation.GiventheexemplaryprisonrecordofMr.Chill,thefourteen
yearsalreadyserved,andhisextraordinarylevelofcooperationwithoneofthisoffice’smostimportant
investigations...westronglyendorseMr.Chill’spetitionforanearlyrelease.”

ThejudgelookedatChill.“Mr.Chill?”

Chillrose,clearedhisthroat,andglancedaroundnervously.“YourHonor,notaday’sgonebywhenI

didn’twishIcouldtakebackwhatIdid.Sure,Iwasdesperate,likealotofpeoplebackthen.Butthat
doesn’tchangewhatIdid.”

Chillsat.

Thefivepeoplehehadspokentoallnodded,asthoughoncue,thenglanceddownatpapersonthe

tabletop.Oneofthem,afloridmanwearingtortoiseshellglasses,clearedhisthroatandsaid,“Igathera
memberofthefamilyisheretoday.Doeshehaveanythingtosay?”

Joe Chill turned his head and scanned the onlookers who sat behind him. For a moment, his gaze

lockedwithBruce’s.Thenheloweredhiseyesandturnedbacktothefront.

Brucestoodandwalkedfromtheroom,awarethateveryone,includingRachel,waswatchinghim.

Movingbriskly,hewentdownthestepsandoutintotheparkinglot.HekneltbythefrontofRachel’s
car,pickeduphisgun,andcrammeditintotheleftsleeveofhiscoat.

Heleanedagainstthecar,facingthecourthouse,andwaited.

The side door opened and the red-haired cop came out followed by an officer in another kind of

uniform—asecurityman,oraprisonguard,Bruceguessed.

Therewasashoutfromthestreetanddozensofreportersandtelevisioncameramenrushedaround

fromthefrontofthebuilding,wheretheyhadbeenwaitingforChill’sappearance.

“They’retakinghimouttheside,”someoneshouted.

Chill,surroundedbyuniformedcopsandmeninovercoats—obviouslydetectives—followedthered-

haired cop and the security guard out into the parking lot as the reporters and cameramen stampeded
towardthem.

“Mr.Chill,”someoneinthemobcalled,“anywordsfortheWaynefamily?”

JoeChillbowedhisheadandignoredthequestion.

Bruce straightened and gulped down cold air. Hands in his coat pockets, he began walking toward

Chill.

“It’sBruceWayne,”anotherreporteryelledandthemobparted,makingapathforBruce.

AbrightlightmountedonacameramomentarilyblindedBruceandwhenhecouldagainseeclearly,

a tall, blond woman holding a tape recorder was approaching Chill. Bruce took his hands from his
pockets.Heslidhisrightfingersintohisleftsleeveandwalkedfaster.

“Joe,hey,JoeChill,”theblondwomansaid.ShewasonlyinchesfromChillnow.“Falconesayshi.”

She pulled a revolver from her shoulder bag, aimed it at Chill’s chest, and fired: a sound like two

boardsbeingslappedtogether.BrucesawChill’seyeswiden,andthecornersofhislipscurlupward,as
thoughhehadjustexperiencedawonderfulsurprise.Then,ashestartedtosagagainstthered-haired
cop,hisexpressionchangedtooneofdisbelief,andheslippedfromthecop’sgraspandcrumpledtothe
blacktop.Foramomenttherewasaconfusedmillingaroundandthenpeoplebeganyelling.

TheothercopsinChill’sescorthadwrestedthewoman’sgunawayandshovedherdownbeforeshe

was dragged off. Bruce was fifteen feet away, his right fingers curled around the gun in his sleeve,
staring.

Eventuallyherealizedthatsomeonewasshakinghisarmandspeakinghisname.Fromthecornerof

hiseye,hesawitwasayoungwomanandrealizeditwasRachel.

“Comeon,Bruce.Wedon’tneedtoseethis.”

Bruceyankedhisarmaway.“Ido.”

Hewatcheditall:thearrivaloftheambulance,theputtingofJoeChillintoabagandtheclosingof

thatbag,theambulanceleaving,belchingbluesmoke,andtheebbandflowofreporters,cops,medics
—watcheduntileveryonewasgoneexceptforhimselfandRachel.

TheygotintoRachel’scar.Afewblocksaway,Rachelturnedontothefreewayandheadedforthe

suburbs.

“TheD.A.couldn’tunderstandwhyJudgeFadeninsistedonmakingthehearingpublic,”Rachelsaid.

“Obviously,FalconepaidhimofftogetChilloutintotheopen.”

“MaybeIshouldbethankingthem,”Brucesaid,hislipsbarelymoving.

“Youdon’tmeanthat.”

“WhatifIdo,Rachel?Myparentsdeservedjustice.”

“You’renottalkingaboutjustice,Bruce.You’retalkingaboutrevenge.”

“Sometimesthey’rethesame.”

“They’reneverthesame,Bruce.Justiceisaboutharmony.Revengeisaboutyoumakingyourselffeel

better.That’swhywehaveanimpartialsystem.”

“Well,yoursystemofjusticeisbroken,”Brucesaid.

Rachel’seyesnarrowedandhervoicewaslowandedgy.“Don’ttellmethesystem’sbroken,Bruce.

I’m out there every day trying to fix it while you mope around using your grief as an excuse to do
nothing.”

Shespunthesteeringwheeland,tiresscreeching,cutacrosstwotrafficlanestoanexitramp.“Iwant

toshowyousomething.”

TheywentdownanofframpandglidedintoanareaBrucehadnevervisited.HisparentsandAlfred

hadalwaystakenhimtoGotham’sglories:wide,tree-linedstreetsandlavishhomesandmuseumsand
theaters and parks—places full of smiling people and bright lights. Here, the streets were narrow,
cramped,anddarkbecausemostofthestreetlampshadbeenbroken.Theypassedblocksofstorefronts

withsheetsofplywoodnailedovertheirwindows.Trashlitteredtheguttersandsidewalks,anddespite
the car’s window being closed, Bruce smelled something fetid and decaying. There was occasional
movementintheshadowedalleyways—furtivepeopleengagedinfurtivetransactions.

Rachelgesturedtothefilthystreets.“Lookbeyondyourownpain,Bruce.Thecityisrotting. Chill

beingdeaddoesn’thelpthat—itmakesitworsebecauseFalconewalks.Hecarriesonfloodingourcity
withcrimeanddrugs,creatingnewJoeChills...Falconemaynothavekilledyourparents,Bruce,but
he’sdestroyingeverythingtheystoodfor.”

Rachel steered the Honda to the curb and turned off the engine. They were parked in front of a

nondescript, two-story building. Above a doorway there was a neon sign—

CLUB

—and a neon arrow

pointingtoaflightofstairs.

“Youwanttothankhimforthat,”Rachelsaid.“Hereyougo.ThisisFalcone’smainhangout.It’sno

secret—everyoneknowswheretofindhim.Butnoonewilltouchhimbecausehekeepsthebadpeople
richandthegoodpeoplescared.”

Rachel poked a forefinger into Bruce’s chest, hard, and asked, “What chance does Gotham have

whenthegoodpeopledonothing?”

“I’mnotoneofyour‘goodpeople,’Rachel.Chilltookthatfromme.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”

Bruce pulled up his left sleeve and removed the gun. “All these years I wanted to kill him. Now I

can’t.”

RachellookedattheweaponlyingonBruce’spalm,gleamingintheglowfromtheneonsign,and

thenupintohiseyes.“Youweregoingtokillhimyourself.”

Sheslappedhim.Brucedidnotrespond.Rachelslappedhimagain,andagainandagain.

Bruceshovedthegunintoajacketpocket.

Rachelstareddownatherlapforafullminute,cryingsilently.Shewipedhereyesonhersleeveand

said,“Justanothercowardwithagun.Yourfatherwouldbeashamedofyou.”

Withoutreplying,Bruceopenedhisdoorandgotoutofthecar.

HewatchedthetaillightsofRachel’scarvanisharoundacornerandthenturnedtoorienthimself.He

wasintheharborarea.Bulkyshapesoffreightersandtankersweresilhouettedagainstaskybrightened
bythereflectionofthecity’slightsandtherewasamingledodorofoilandsaltintheair.Brucewalked
tothewater,hisfootfallsechoinghollowlyontheboardsofapier.Hetookthegunfromhispocketand
heldituptoletthesternlightsofoneoftheshipsshineonit.Heturneditslowly,squinting,asthough
hewereexaminingsomeunimaginablyalienartifact,thenflungitintothewater.

Hewalkedfromthepierbackontothestreet,hisshoescrunchingonbrokenglass,andwenttothe

CLUB

signanddownthestairsbeneathit.Hepassedthroughametaldoorandgasped:theairwasabrew

ofsmoke,sweat,perfume,cologne,andalcohol.Brucewipedhissuddenlywateringeyesonhissleeve
and stood, trying to acclimate himself to the noise of a hundred conversations, a hundred raucous
laughs.Hehadneverseensomanypeoplejammedintosuchasmallspace.

Falcone was not hard to spot. He was at a corner table surrounded by men in suits and women in

cocktaildresses,spreadinghishands,makingapoint.

Brucecrossedandstoodinfrontofhim.

“You’re taller than you look in the tabloids, Mr. Wayne,” Falcone said in a surprisingly pleasant

voice.

AburlymaninjeansandabluejacketappearedatBruce’ssideandranhishandsoverBruce’sbody.

ThemanlookedatFalconeandsaid,“Clean.”

Falconesaid,“Nogun?I’minsulted.”

“Onlyacowardneedsagun,”Brucereplied.

Falconegesturedtoachairandthemanintheblazerpulleditawayfromthetable.Brucesat.

“Couldajustsentmeathank-younote,”FalconesaidtoBruce.

“Ididn’tcomeheretothankyou.IcametoshowyouthatnoteveryoneinGothamisafraidofyou.”

Falcone laughed. “Just those that know me, kid. Look around. You’ll see two councilmen, a union

official,acoupleoff-dutycops,ajudge...”

Brucerecognizedoneofthemenwhohadbeenatthehearingsittingatanearbytable.WhenBruce

returnedhisattentiontoFalcone,hewaslookingatasilverpistolaimedathischest.

“Idon’thaveasecond’shesitationblowingyourheadoffinfrontofthem...that’spoweryoucan’t

buy.Thepoweroffear.”

“I’mnotafraidofyou.”

“Becauseyouthinkyou’vegotnothingtolose.Butyouhaven’tthoughtitthrough...youhaven’t

thoughtaboutyourladyfriendfromtheD.A.’s...orthatoldbutlerofyours...”

Falconeslidthegunbeneathhisjacket.“Peoplefromyourworldalwayshavesomuchtolose.That’s

why they keep me in business. I stop the desperate heading uptown the way Joe Chill did. You think
becauseyourmommyanddaddygotshotyouknowtheuglysideoflife,butyoudon’t.You’venever
tasteddesperation—you’reBruceWayne,PrinceofGotham.You’dhavetogoathousandmilestomeet
someonewhodidn’tknowyourname.Sodon’tcomedownherewithallyouranger...tryingtoprove
somethingtoyourself.Thisisaworldyou’llneverunderstand.Andyou’llalwaysfearwhatyoudon’t
understand.”

FalconenoddedandthemaninthejacketpunchedBruceintheface,knockinghimoffhischair.Two

other men hauled Bruce to his feet and it began: a brief, savage beating, perpetrated in front of a
hundredclub-goers.Theroomquieted,andforawhilethesilencewasbrokenonlybygruntsandthe
soundofblows.

“Enough,”FalconesaidandthemanwhowashittingBrucestopped.Falconeroseandcamecloseto

Bruce.“Yougotspirit,kid,I’llgiveyouthat.Morethanyouroldman,anyway.Inthejoint,Chilltold
meaboutthenighthekilledyourparents...saidyouroldmanbeggedformercy.Begged.Likeadog.”

Falcone jerked a thumb in the direction of a rear door and the thugs dragged Bruce through it and

flunghimintothestreet.

Brucepushedhimselftohisfeetandstaggeredtoawall.Heleanedagainstitandwipedthebackof

hishandoverhismouth,tastingsomethingcopper,recognizingitasblood,wonderingifhewasgoing
toloseanyteeth.

Allthosepeople,watchingmebebeaten...WhathadFalconesaid?“That’spoweryoucan’tbuy.

Thepoweroffear.”

Heshovedawayfromthewallandwalkedtowardthedock,awarethathewasbeingobservedfrom

doorwaysandalleys.Heapproachedanoilbarrelwithflameslickingoutofitstop.

Amanhuddlednearthebarrel,warminghimself,said,“Maybeyashouldatippedbetter.”

Bruce drew closer; the glow of the flames revealed a face with grime in deeply etched lines and a

splotchybeard.Brucestaredthoughtfullyintotheflamesasthemanrubbedhishandsoverthem.

“Youhaveaname?”Bruceaskedthehomelessman.

“Name’sJoey.Lastname’snonea’yourbusiness.”

Bruceremovedhiswalletandgaveawadofmoneytothehomelessman.

“Forwhat?”Joeyasked.

“Yourjacket.”

Brucedroppedhiswalletintothefire.Joeylaughed.Heshruggedoutofhisovercoatandbundledit

intoaball.

“Letmehaveit,”Joeyshouted.“That’sagoodcoat.”

Theytraded:anine-hundred-dollar,fawn-colored,cashmereovercoatforafrayedandtornNavypea

coatthathadcostsomesailoratenspotwhenitwasnewthreedecadesago.

“Becarefulwhoseesyouwiththat,”Brucesaid.“They’regoingtocomelookingforme.”

Joeywasbuttoningtheovercoat.“Who?”

“Everyone.”

Bruce smiled, saluted Joey with two fingers, and walked onto the pier, threading his way among

stacksoffreightcontainers.Ahornblared,deepandloud,andBrucelookedtowardoneoftheships,its
hulltremblingasitsengineschurnedthewater.Brucerantowardit.

FROMTHEJOURNALSOFRĀ’SALGHŪL

Earlythismorning,Iwalkedasfarasthenearestduneandbackagain,breathinginthecleandesert
airandrejoicinginit.Here,intheheat,andinthemountains,ontheglacier,Icanrememberthe
planet as it once was before the stink of the greed of man made it a purgatory that is quickly
becomingahell.

Ibegintofeeltherigorsofage,asIhavesooftenbefore.SoonImustdescendagainintothePit

torejuvenatemyself.Therejuvenationwillbefollowed,asitalwaysis,byaperiodofinsanerage
andviolence.Once,Ihopedtofindacureforthisinevitableconsequenceofmychemicalbath,but
apparentlythereisnone.Everythinghasaprice.

Ihavealsodecidedtoabandonmyattemptstoaltermygenesinsuchawayastoallowmeto

sireamalechild.Thereasonformylonginabilitytogenerateaboyapparentlyhastodowithmy
Ychromosomethat,oncedamaged,doesnotrepairitselfasdoestheheartierXchromosome.Not
havingasonisthegreatestpersonalburdenIbear.ItisaconsequenceofmyvisitstothePitthat
keepmealive.Ihavemadeastrangebargainwiththeuniverse.

I am as always sustained by the righteousness of my mission and the realization that I am

humanity’ssavior.Inanothermanthesemightseemlikeboastfulwords.Iamnotlikeothermen.
Mylonglifehasproventhis,ifnothingelse.

Wewillsoonrelocateourdomiciletothebuildingabovetheglacier.Ithinkthatisastrategically

desirablelocationforthenextphaseofmyefforts.IwillaugmentmyarmyandbringtheLeague

of Shadows to its greatest strength in three hundred years. I will continue to seek an adequate
leader,someonetoreplacemeintheeventthatInevercreatemyownreplacement.

TheexperimentinGothamCitywasatbestaqualifiedsuccess.Ihavegivenlongconsideration

as to the means I shall use next in my crusade to save humanity and I may have come to a
conclusion.Ihavedecidedagainstnuclearbombs.Touseenoughnuclearpowertoridtheearthof
theeightypercentofitshumaninhabitantswouldbetorendertheplanetinhospitabletomostlife
formsandthishasneverbeenmywish.NeithercanIusetheenvironmentaloutrageshumanityhas
already perpetrated for they, too, could leave the earth a barren cinder. Microbes and other
biologicalmeansarealsodifficultchoicesforintheamountsIrequiretheyarealmostimpossible
tocontrol.IsensethattheanswerIseekisoneIalreadypossess.Myproblemistorecognizeit.

During my few moments of tranquility, I reflect on the irony of my plans for the mass

eradicationofHomosapiens.Forthefirstcenturyofmylife,Idevotedallmyeffortstofurthering
humanexistence.Iministeredtotheillinthelowesthovelsandthegrandestpalacesalike,withno
thoughtexcepttoeasesuffering.Evenaftertheslayingofmywife,Icontinuedtoplymyaltruism.
Onlyslowly,overdozensofdecades,didIcometorealizethatthereareoccasionswhentoheal,a
physicianmustfirstharm.Thisisalessonmydaughtersseemunabletoabsorb.Iamcertainason
wouldhavenodifficultyunderstandingit.

Ourtaskgrowsurgentandourtimeshort.Everydaytheearthbecomesstillmoretoxic.Withina

generationortwoatmostitwillreachthepointofnoreturn.Imustsucceedbeforeitdoes,andI
will.

CHAPTERFOUR

hroughout the long, snowy winter that followed, Gotham’s glitterati wanted to know what had

happenedtothathandsomeyoungBruceWayne.Therewerenoshortageofrumors:

—IheardhewaswinteringontheRiviera.

—Mycousinsawhim.inCharlotteAmalie.

—IknowitwashimplayingbaccaratinMonaco.Hewasindisguise—baldandshort,butitwashim,

allright.

—BruceWayne?SkiinginGstaad.

—Therealtruthis,thedeathofhisparentsdrovehimmad.Theyhavehiminanasylum.

—Well,whereverheis,youcanbetthathe’senjoyinghimself.

By spring, however, Bruce Wayne’s name was not being mentioned so much. There were other

matters to discuss: the antics of that divine Ms. Fitzgerald—when she jumped into the fountain, we
thoughtwe’ddie—and,ofcourse,thesummerfashionsandvacationplans...Oh,andcrime.Isn’tthat
situationdownbythedocksgettingdreadful?

Brucehadjustbeenbeatensenselessforthethirdtime.Hisfirstweekontheshiphadnotbeenbad.The
captainwaswillingtotakeonanewhand,onewithoutexperienceorpapers,providedthenewhand
wasnotchoosyaboutwhereheslept,whatheate,orwhatkindofworkhedid.SoBrucesleptonrags
inacorneroftheengineroom,atewhateverwasleftwheneveryoneelsehadeaten,andworkedharder
thanhehadknownitwaspossibletowork:liftingheavycrates,pullingatheavycables,scrapingpaint
offtheship’shull,cleaningfoul-smellinggunkfromthebilges.Attheendofeachfifteen-hourday,he
droppedontohisrags,everymuscleaching,butparticularlythemusclesinhisbackandcalves,and
driftedofftosleepdespitetheroarofhugemachinesonlyfeetaway.Butdespitethetoilanddiscomfort,
thefirstweekwasbearablebecausethecrewprettymuchignoredhim.

The second week was bad. He was not ignored; he was tormented. It began when a wiry man, a

bosun’smate,motionedforBrucetojoinhimontheship’sfantail.Brucesmiled,thinkingthathewas
finallygoingtomakeafriend.

Thebosungrinnedandsaid,“IamHector.”

Still smiling, Bruce neared the bosun and was kicked in the groin. He doubled over, falling to the

deck,andwithoutawordthebosunkickedhimonthetopofhishead.Brucefellintoawhirlofeddying
colorandawokehurting.

Thefollowingday,amemberoftheblackganghithimwithagarbage-canlid,andasBrucereeled

againstabulkhead,hetossedthelidasideandpunchedBruce,twiceinthechestandonceintheface.

WhenBruceopenedhiseyes—aminutelater?anhour?—hisattackerwasgone.

Brucewenttothetoiletandturnedonarustyfaucet.Hesplashedcold,saltywateronhisbruisesand

triedtounderstandwhatwashappeningtohim.Aninitiation?Maybethat,butprobablyhewasbeing
hitbecausehewasastrangerandlifeaboardshipwasboring.Okay,he’dacceptthisrealityandtake
whathecouldfromit.Hedidn’tlikebeingpunchedandthecolorofhisownbloodheldnodelightfor
him,buttherewerelessonstobelearnedhere,andBrucewasdeterminedtolearnthem.

Thebosuninitiatedthethirdattack.Thistime,Brucewasreadyandmanagedtolandablowbefore

beingknockedout.Bruceawokewithwaterinhisface.Helookedupandsawthebosunstandingover
himwithanemptypail.

“Iteachyou,”thebosunsaid.

And he did—in odd, five-minute intervals between jobs, he educated Bruce in dirty fighting. The

lessonsamountedtothis:trustnoone,hitfirst,preferablywithsomethingharderthanafist,andthenhit
orkickagain,untilyourenemycannolongerresist.Thenhithimoncemore.Orkickhim.Orstomp
him.

Bruce had an idea of his own. Hector, and a lot of his other shipmates, were bigger and more

powerfulthanhe—thehardlaborhe’dbeendoingformonthsthey’dbeendoingforyears.Butnoneof
themseemedparticularlybright,includingHector.Bycontrast,Brucewassmart,asawholebatteryof
IQtestshadproven.

Okay,Ican’toutmusclethem,butIcanoutthinkthem...

Whentheywerewithinsightofland,Bruceaskedthecaptainabouthissalary.Salary?Thecaptain

chuckled.Brucewasastowawayandstowawaysdidnotgetpaid.

Aftertheshipwasoff-loadedandthecrewhadgoneashore,thebosun,Hector,invitedBrucetothe

fantail.“Let’sseehowgoodIteachyou,”hesaid.

Okay,pal,youaskedforit...

While Bruce was thinking about his first move, Hector knocked him down and began kicking him

senseless.

EverymorningAlfredPennyworthwaitedbyWayneManor’smaingate,nexttothemailbox,untilthe
postman arrived in his odd, three-wheeled vehicle with the day’s delivery, and every morning Alfred
thumbed through the envelopes, hoping for a letter from Bruce. But there were only bills, and
occasionallyapostcardfromhisnieceinLondon.

Somethingbrand-newwashappeningtoBruce,somethinghecouldnothaveimaginedeighteenmonths
ago,whenhewasthesoftandpamperedscionofawealthyfamily.Hewasstarving.Heknewthathis
bodyhadexhausteditsstoreoffatandwasconsumingitsmuscleandthatsoonhewouldcollapseand
would probably lay in the filthy street until he died, unnoticed unless someone decided his rags were
worthstealing.Howlongsincehehadeaten?Atleastthreedays.Ithadbeenacupofundercookedrice
andBrucehadgulpeditdownalmostwithoutchewing.

Hesatwithhisbackagainstatree.HeraisedhiseyesandlookedoutovertheAfricanmarketplace.

There were dozens of tents and tables heaped with fruit, vegetables, curried meats, and a throng of
colorfullycladshoppersinspecting,haggling,buying,andhurryingofftofeedtheirfamilies.

Bruceforcedhimselftohisfeetandjoinedthethrong.Hestoppedbyafruitvendor,andastheold

woman behind the table eyed him suspiciously, he picked up a mango in his right hand and made a
showofexaminingitaswithhislefthandhestoleaplumfromthetableanddroppeditintohispocket.

Hehurriedintoanalleywayandbitintohisplumandalmostfaintedfromjoy—thesweetnessofit,

thejuiciness—nothinghadevertastedsogood.Nothingcouldevertastesogood.

Heheardsomething,theslighteststirring,andsawachild,aboutfour,squattinginadoorway.The

child, a boy, was naked and covered with grime. His ribs stretched his skin and his eyes, wide and
glazed,wereinhollowsabovehischeeks.

Brucegazeddownatthehalfpluminhisfingers—thewonderfulplum!—andthenhandedittothe

boy.Brucecouldprobablygetmorefood.Theboyprobablycouldnot.

Later,Brucewasabletostealahandfulofdates,andeatthem,greedilysuckingthelastbitsofflavor

fromthepits.

I’vecommitted,myfirstcrime.I’macriminal.Well,well,well...

Thenextday,Brucegothimselfhiredbyatrampsteamerandinthefollowingmonthssawalotof

AfricaandsomeofAsia.HejumpedshipinMarrakesh,sleptunderabridgeforacoupleofnights,and
signedontoatankerboundfortheUnitedKingdom.

He hung around London long enough to learn something about stealing cars from the ship’s cook,

thenshippedoutonafreighterandfoundhimselfinShanghai.Oneofthedeckhandsfromhislastship
hadawaytomakesomequick,easymoney,andBrucewasinterested.Thiswasyetanotheropportunity
to do what he had been trying to do for months, to understand the kind of human being who had
deprivedhimofallhecherished—theJoeChillkind.Hewentwiththeman,whomhehadnicknamed
“Stocky,”andtogethertheytraveledbytaxitoanairportterminalattheedgeofthecity.There,theysat
onabenchacrossthestreetandwatchedlaborersfillatruckwithcrates.Thatnight,Brucefeltfear,the
fearofonepreparingtocommitacrime,andperversely,hewasexhilaratedbyit.

StockyandBrucehijackedthetruck:noproblem,thedriverwasnotabouttobeahero.Afterthejob

was done and they were speeding down a dark road, Stocky driving, Bruce suddenly began to laugh.
SoonhewaslaughingandgaspingandpoundingthedashboardandStocky,whowasbehindthewheel,
beganlaughing,too.

“Wedidit,”BrucesaidinEnglish,thenrepeatedhimselfinMandarin.

Stockydroveintoawarehousenearthedocks.Thetwomenclimbeddownfromthetruck’scab,still

laughing.

InMandarin,BruceaskedStocky,“Whereisyourfriend?Themanwhoissupposedtomeetus?”

“Notafriend,”Stockyreplied.“Thefriendofafriend.”

SomethinginStocky’stoneofvoice,inhisbodylanguage...Bruceknewhewasbeingliedtoand

beganlookingforanexit.Hewasconsideringarunatasidedoorwhenitslammedopenandatalmost
the same second every other door in the warehouse opened and uniformed policemen with guns and
truncheonsranthroughthem,shoutinginMandarin.ThepolicemensurroundedBruceandseveralother
men who had been in the warehouse when he arrived, pointed guns at them, handcuffed them, and
shovedthemdowntosittingpositionsonthefloor.Stockyhadvanished.Obviously,hehadmadeadeal
ofsomekind,tradedBruceforhisownfreedom.Thepolicemenbeganunloadingthetruckandstacking
thecratesnearwhereBrucesat.

Oneofthepolicemen,ayoungmanwithcoldeyes,askedBrucehisnameinEnglish.

Bruce considered telling him and decided against it. He did not want to tarnish his family’s

reputation, but more important, he did not want anyone in Gotham hearing about what happened and
sendinghelp.WhateverBrucewasdoing—andhestillwasnotsurewhatitwas—heknewhehadtodo
italone.

“Iwouldrathernottellyou,”BrucesaidinMandarin.

“Fool,whatdoIcarewhatyournameis?Youareacriminal.”

“Iamnotacriminal.”

“Tell that to the guy who owned these,” the policeman said, kicking a crate bearing a Wayne

Enterpriseslogo.

Bruceexpectedaformalinternmentprocedure:areadingofhisrights,anappearancebeforeajudge,

perhapsevenaphonecall.Becausehecontinuedtorefusetogivethepolicemenhisname,hegotnone
ofthat.Instead,hewasputintoacellwithfourothermen.Afterafewdaysbehindbars,someonegot
himreleased.Heneverlearnedtheidentityofhisbenefactor,buthewasmetoutsidethejailbyasmall
AsianmanwearingaBrooksBrotherssuitandadiamondringonhisrightindexfingerwhoaskedhim
ifhemightbeinterestedinsomeworkinBhutan.Itseemedtobeagiventhattheworkwouldbeillegal.

Whynot?I’malreadyacriminal...

HewastakentoasmallairstripinaruralareaandputonaWorldWarTwovintageaircraft,arefitted

oldDC6,withsmokingenginesandnopassengeramenities,andflownovertheHimalayastoasimilar
airstripinsouthwesternChina.Heneverlearnedwhathewassupposedtodotherebecauseacompany
ofsoldiersarmedwithautomaticweaponseruptedfromthesurroundingwoodsassoonastheplane’s
engineshadstoppedandplacedBruceandthetwopilotsunderarrest.Obviously,anotherdealhadbeen
made,somewhere,bysomeone,withBruceasabargainingchip.

AsinShanghai,Brucerefusedtogivetheauthoritieshisname.Hewastakentoaprisonnearsome

farmlandandtoldhewouldremainthereuntilhecooperated.

Was this the time to reveal his identity? To summon Alfred or a Wayne Enterprises lawyer and go

home?No.Hestilldidn’tknowwhateveritwashehadtolearn.Hehadahunch,though,thathisnext
lessonswouldbepainful.

Thefirstnight,inthemesshall,asBrucewascarryingametalbowlofgrueltoatable,oneofthe

inmatesstuckoutafootandtrippedhim.Brucebrokehisfallwithhislefthandandthebowlskittered
across the floor. The man who had tripped Bruce drew back a foot to kick. Bruce grabbed the man’s
otherlegandyankedandasthemanwasfallingBrucethrewanawkwardpunchandcaughttheman
under the chin. The man’s head snapped back and struck a chair and he lay still. Bruce got up and
looked around: the guards, who had not moved from their places along the wall, were grinning.
Apparentlytheyenjoyedagoodfight.

Brucewaited,withoutsupper,untilhewasreturnedtohiscell.Hesleptfitfullythatnight.

Heawoketofindhiscellmate,amanwholookedtobeatleasteightyandwasalmostasskinnyas

thechildBrucehadsharedhisplumwithinAfrica,staringathim.Already,thecorridorsoftheprison
rangwithshoutsandtheoccasionalscream.

Thenextincidenthappenedduringtheafternoonrecreationbreakintheyard.Thedaywasbleak.A

cold drizzle was falling, turning the tan dust on the ground to a dark brown mud. Bruce was walking

towardthecoverofatowerwhensomeonegrabbedhimfrombehindinachokehold.Brucedrovehis
elbowintohisattacker’sribs,twice,andreachedback,grabbedtheman’shair,pulledforward,andthen
got his shoulder under the attacker’s chest and heaved. The attacker, a young man whose skin was
mottledandflaking,fellintothemud.

Brucecontinuedtothetowerandhunkereddown,scanningtheyard,awarethathewasbeingstared

at.Thisisbad,herealized.Lifehadbeenhardontheshipandhehadacquiredafewscars,butnoneof
the crewmen had actually wanted to kill him. They tormented him because they were bored, and
sometimesdrunk,andtheydidnotknowhowelsetoamusethemselves.Buthere,thesemen...they
werefullofhateandrageandhewasastranger,notoftheirkind,andsohewastheirnaturalenemy,
andenemiesdied.

FROMTHEJOURNALSOFRĀ’SALGHŪL

A young man from the United States has come to my attention. He is of wealthy parentage but
seemstohaveretainedamodicumofcharacterdespiteaprivilegedupbringing.Atthistimeheis
inaChineseprison.Icanchangethatquiteeasily,asthewardenoftheprisonhaslongbeenapaid
ally of ours. It may be that I will investigate this Bruce Wayne further, although he will
undoubtedlyprovetobeasdisappointingashismanypredecessors.

Bruceandhisancientcellmatewereinthemesshall,waitingtohavegruelploppedintotheirbowls.

“Theyaregoingtofightyou,”theoldmansaid.

“Again?”

“Untiltheykillyou.”

ThecookdumpedaladlefullofgruelintoBruce’sbowl.“Can’ttheykillmebeforebreakfast?”

Brucemovedtowardatable.Hestopped.Hiswaywasblockedbyanenormousmanwithdozensof

knifescarsonhisfaceandarms.Fiveotherprisonersstoodbehindhim.Noneseemedfriendly.

ThescarredmanspokeEnglishinanaccentBrucecouldnotidentify.“Youareinhell.”

HepunchedBruceinthefaceandBrucefell.

“Iamthedevil,”thescarredmansaid.

Bruce got to his feet and smiled as he brushed dust from his shirt. “You’re not the devil—you’re

practice.”

The scarred man swung. Bruce caught the fist, kicked the man’s knee, and as the man fell, Bruce

kneedhisface.

Thescarredman’sfivecompanionsallchargedatonce—amistake,becausetheygotineachother’s

way.Brucefought,usingeverythinghehadlearnedontheship,everythinghehadseeninback-alley
brawls,andsomethingshedidnotknowheknew.

ThenthefamiliarsoundoftwoboardsbeingslappedtogetherinstantlychilledBruce.Hehadheard

itslikebefore,outsideanoperahouse,andimmediatelyBruce’sattackersstoodbackanddroppedtheir
fiststotheirsides.AguardholdingapistolsteppedinfrontofBruce.TwootherguardsgrabbedBruce’s
arms.

“Solitary,”theguardwiththegunbarked.

Brucemadeashowofbeingindignant.“Why?”

“Forprotection.”

“Idon’tneedprotection.”

“Protectionforthem.”

TheguardsdraggedBrucefromthemesshallanddownasteepflightofstonesteps.Theyflunghim

through a door and slammed it shut. Bruce could see very little of where he was. The only light was
fromasmallgaphighinthewallthatcastacrackofsunlightontothedirtfloor.Theairwasdankand
stankofhumanwaste.Brucetastedbloodandtouchedasplitonhislowerlip.

“Areyousodesperatetofightcriminalsthatyoulockyourselfintotakethemononeatatime?”

Thevoicehadcomefromtheshadows—arichlycivilizedvoice,deepandmellifluous.

“Actually,thereweresevenofthem,”Brucesaid.

Thesourceofthevoicesteppedintothelight.Hewastall,powerfullybuilt,wearinganimpeccably

tailoredgraysuit.

“Icountedsix,Mr.Wayne.”

“Howdoyouknowmyname?”

“TheworldistoosmallforsomeonelikeBruceWaynetodisappear”—thenewcomerswepthisarm

inasemicircle—“nomatterhowdeephechoosestosink.”

“Whoareyou?”

“My name is Henri Ducard. But I speak for Rā’s al Ghūl. A man greatly feared by the criminal

underworld.Amanwhocanofferyouapath.”

“WhatmakesyouthinkIneedapath?”

“Someone like you is only here by choice. You’ve been exploring the criminal fraternity . . . But

whateveryouroriginalintentions—you’vebecometrulylost.”

Bruce moved closer to the stranger, this Ducard, and examined his face: prominent bones, a

prominentnoseandchin—astrong,highlyresoluteface.“WhatpathdoesRā’salGhūloffer?”

“The path of one who shares his hatred of evil and wishes to serve true justice. The path of the

LeagueofShadows.”

BruceturnedhisbackonDucardandsnapped,“Vigilantes.”

“Avigilanteisjustamanlostinthescrambleforhisowngratification.Hecanbedestroyedorlocked

up.”Again,Ducardswepthisarmtoindicatethecellaroundthem.“Butifyoumakeyourselfmorethan
aman...ifyoudevoteyourselftoanideal...iftheycan’tstopyou...thenyoubecomesomething
elseentirely.”

“Whichis?”

Ducardstrodetothedoor.“Alegend,Mr.Wayne.”

ThedoorswungopenandaguardmovedasidetoletDucardpass.

“Tomorrowyou’llbereleased,”Ducardsaid.“Ifyou’reboredofbrawlingwiththievesandwantto

achievesomething,there’sarareflower—abluepoppy—thatgrowsontheeasternslopes.Pickoneof
theseflowers.Ifyoucancarryittothetopofthemountain,youmayfindwhatyouwerelookingforin

thefirstplace.”

“AndwhatwasIlookingfor?”

“Onlyyoucanknowthat.”

ThedoorslammedshutbehindDucard.Brucepushedagainstit:locked.Helaydownonthedirtand

staredupatthesliveroflightuntilsometime,manyhourslater,heslept.Hedreamedofbatsexploding
fromacreviceandtearingathim...

CHAPTERFIVE

eforedawnthefollowingmorning,Brucewasescortedfromhiscell,givenabreakfastofgruelanda

chunkofstalebread.AguardhandedBruceacanvasjacketwithfrayedsleevesandtookhimtowherea
rustyarmytruckwaswaiting,itsancientenginecoughingandsputtering.Bruceclimbedintotheback
of the truck, which left the prison grounds and bumped along a rutted road for an hour. The sun was
brightintheeasternskywhenthetruckscreechedtoahalt.AnAsianmaninmilitaryfatiguescameto
thetailgateofthetruckandbarkedatBruceinalanguagehedidnotunderstand.Inthenextinstantit
becameclearashewasthrownfromthetruck.Ashepickedhimselfuphewatcheditspeedaway.

Bruceshivered;itwassnowingandincrediblywindyandcold.Hepulledthejacket’scollartighter

aroundhisneckandscannedhisenvironment.Therewasaglacierfaroffinthedistance,andBruceset
offinitsdirection.Hewalkedforaverylongtime,andeventuallyhefoundhimselfinthefoothillsof
theHimalayas,attheedgeofafieldofexquisitebluepoppies.Hestoopedandpickedone,studiedit,
andputitinhisbreastpocket.Hetrudgedtothefootofthenearestslopeandbeganthehikeupward.

The sun was almost directly above, and the snow and wind had increased in pitch by the time he

topped a steep, twisting trail and saw a cluster of huts a few hundred yards away. He hurried toward
them;hehadbeenclimbingforhoursinthin,frigidair.Heneededfood,rest,warmth.Hesawtwomen
andawomannearoneofthehutsandwavedtothem.Theyscurriedintothehut.Herantowardthem,
yelling.Allthedoorswereclosed.Hepoundedononewithhisfist.Noanswer.

Maybetheflowerissomesortofsignal...

Hetookthepoppyfromhispocketandheldithighoverhishead.

“Noonewillhelpyou.”

Bruceturned:ayoungchild,aboyaroundeightyearsold,hadspokeninEnglishandwaspointingto

theflower.

“Ineedfood,”Brucesaid.

An old man came around the corner of the closest hut, stood beside the child, and said, also in

English,“Thenturnback.”

Brucewaitedfortheoldmantosaymore.Whenhedidnot,Brucecontinuedupthemountain.

At about midafternoon, by Bruce’s estimate, clouds had completely covered the sun and the

mountainside was colder and windier. The upward slope had grown steeper and snow hit him
constantly. Bruce was panting as he climbed to the top of an icy ridge. The rest of the mountain was
covered in clouds, snow, and mist. Bruce clamped his teeth together to stop their chattering, but he
couldnotcontroltheshiversthatrackedhisbody.Windhowleddowntheslope,drivinggustsofsnow
intoBruce’sfaceandeyes.Heblinked,wipedhisfaceonhissleeve,andstruggledon.

Atthenextlevelclearing,Brucefloppeddownintothesnow.Theskywasalmostdarkandthewind

feltlikearazorslicinghisfacebuthedidnothingtoshieldhimself.Hewascompletelyexhausted.He
couldgonofarther.

Thisiswhereitends...

Somethingwasvisiblethroughthesnow,thesilhouetteof...what?Abuilding?Brucerolledtohis

handsandkneesandtriedtostand.Hecouldnot;hislegsrefusedtostaystraight.

Brucecrawledacrossastonepatio,makingfurrowsinthesnowbehindhim,andupasmallflightof

widestepstoatallwoodendoor.Hestruckthewoodwithhisfistfeebly.Hestruckagain,harder,and
again,harderstill.Therewasacreakingandagrindingsound,andthedoorscrapedopen.

Brucepulledhimselfinsideand,leaningagainstawall,gottohisfeet.Hewasinahuge,vaultedhall

litbytorchessetintoironbracketsonthestonefloor,formingpoolsofflickeringfirelightthatmelted
intosurroundingshadows.Therewerethick,supportingpillarseveryfewyards.

Thedoorcreakedandscrapedandthuddedshut.

Brucesquinted,adjustinghissighttothesemidarkness.Atthefarendofthehall,atleasthalfacity

blockaway,therewasaraisedplatform.Onitsatarobedfigure,amanwhosefeatures,inthedimglow
ofthetorches,seemedvaguelyAsian,butonlyvaguely.

Despitethesubzerotemperatureoutside,thelongchamberwaswarmandhumid.Brucefelthisbody

recoveringfromitsordealasitwarmed.Heunbuttonedhisjacketandshuffledforward.

“Rā’salGhūl?”hecalled.

Adozenmenemergedfromtheshadowsbehindthetorches.Theirclothingwasamixofethnicdress

andmoderncombatgarb.AstheymovedtowardBruce,theybrandisheddaggersandshortswords.

“Wait!”someonecommanded.Thearmedmenstoppedandbecameasstillasstone.

Ducardsteppedaroundapillar.Brucereachedintohisbreastpocketandpulledoutthebluepoppy.

Hehelditout,hishandshaking.

Rā’salGhūlspokeinwhatBrucethoughtwasUrdu.Ducardtranslated:“Whatareyouseeking?”

Bruce’s lips were numb and he found it difficult to answer. “I . . . I seek . . . the means to fight

injustice.Toturnfearagainstthosewhopreyonthefearful.”

DucardmovedtostandinfrontofBruce,andtooktheflower.

Rā’salGhūlspokeagain,andagainDucardtranslated:“Tomanipulatethefearsofothersyoumust

firstmasteryourown.”DucardplacedthepoppyinabuttonholeandaskedBruce,“Areyoureadyto
begin?”

Brucefelthimselftremblingwithfatigue.“I...Icanbarely...”

DucardkickedhimandBrucefelltothefloor.

Fistsonhips,Ducardlookeddownathimandsaid,“Deathdoesnotwaitforyoutobeready.”

Gasping,BrucestruggledtohisfeetandDucardpunchedhimintheribs.Brucestaggeredbackward.

“Deathisnotconsiderate,orfair,”Ducardsaid.“Andmakenomistake—here,youfacedeath.”

Ducardpivoted340degreesandaimedakickatBruce’sneck.ButBruceraisedhisrightforearmand

blockedDucard’sfoot.Ducardsmiled.

Bruceputhisleftlegforwardandshiftedhisweightontohisleft,andputhisflattened,crossedhands

at chest height: a martial arts stance he had learned aboard ship. He forced himself to remember

everything else he had learned on the ship, and in all the dark alleys and filthy bars where he had
fought, and won, and been defeated. Ducard attacked and Bruce responded: punches, kicks, blocks,
jabs,chops—asmoothflurryofcontinualmotion.

Ducardsaid,“Youareremarkablyskilled.Butthisisnotadance.”

Ducard smashed the top of his head into Bruce’s face and immediately kneed him in the groin,

drivinghisflatpalmupintoBruce’schin.Brucefellbackwardandtriedtorise,butcouldnot.

Ducard crouched over Bruce. “And you are afraid. But I sense that you do not fear me.” Ducard

pulled the blue poppy from his buttonhole and dropped it onto Bruce’s chest. He put his lips close to
Bruce’sear.“Tellus,Wayne...whatdoyoufear?”

AndBruceremembered:screechinghatsexplodingfromthecreviceandtearingathim...

FROMTHEJOURNALSOFRĀ’SALGHŪL

IfeellikeMichelangelomusthavefeltwhenhefoundtheblockofmarblethatbecamehisDavid.
Thusfar,BruceWaynehasnotdisappointedme.Hemaybetherawmaterialofmymasterpiece.
Evolution has been kind to him. He is of huge mental capacity with an intelligence quotient I
believetobeamongthehighesteverrecordedandaneideticmemory.Everythingthatheseesor
hearshecanrecallwithtotalaccuracyandheisabletoabsorbnewinformationofanykindwith
speed. He is also a splendid physical specimen with what appears to be an optimum balance
between fast and slow muscle fibers, a large lung capacity, unimpeded circulation of blood, a
responsivenervoussystem,andexcellentproportions,somuchsothattheartistsofancientGreece
might well have used him as a model for the statues of idealized humans they were fond of
creating.BruceWayneisstillignorantandcannotaccessallthatnaturehasgivenhim,butthose
areconditionsthatIcanremedy.

CHAPTERSIX

he following morning, Ducard and Bruce, now wearing cold-weather gear, stood on the balcony of

the monastery. The sun glared on a vast sheet of ice, a glacier that lay below them. Bruce had just
finishedtellingDucardthedetailsofhisparents’deaths.Hewassilentforperhapstenminutes,enjoying
thecold,clearairflowingintohisbody,andthesightofthehardblueskyabovethem.

DucardbrokethesilencebyaskingBruceaquestion.“Doyoustillfeelresponsibleforyourparents’

deaths?”

“Myangeroutweighsmyguilt,”Brucereplied.

Ducard nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He led Bruce into the monastery’s main

chamber,whereBrucehadfirstenteredthebuilding.Groupsofwarriors,perhapsfiftymeninall,were
training:sparring,shadowboxing,leaping,andkicking.DucardandBrucewalkedtooneofthepillars,
where a ninja was hanging upside down. Ducard motioned the man to come down and when he did,
DucardshowedBrucethesecretofthefeat:spikesspacedalongagauntletthattheninjahaddriveninto
thepillar.

“The ninja is thought to be invisible,” Ducard explained. “But invisibility is largely a matter of

patience.”

Bruce and Ducard climbed a short flight of steps to a mezzanine full of stacked boxes and bottles.

Severalninjaswerepouringpowdersintopackets,obviouslymakingcompounds.Bruceknewthatthe
ninja’s art had originated in Japan, but these ninjas were a mixed lot: Asians, East Indians, some
Caucasians.

Ducardtookapinchofgraypowderfromanopenboxandthrewitdown.Therewasaflashoflight

andaloudbang.BruceflinchedandDucardsmiled.

“Ninjitsuemployexplosives,”Ducardsaid.

“Asweapons?”

“Ordistractions.Theatricalityanddeceptionarepowerfulagents.Youmustbecomemorethanjusta

maninthemindofyouropponent.”

Brucetooksomepowderfromtheboxand,withasnapofhiswrist,dasheditonthefloor.Thistime

Brucedidnotflinchattheflashandthenoise.

Afteralunchofriceandvegetables,DucardgaveBruceastraight-bladedChineseswordandapair

ofgauntletssimilartothosetheninjahadworn.

DucardequippedhimselfidenticallyandledBrucedownthesteep,snowypathtotheglacier.

“You’retrainingmetofightwithablade?”Bruceasked.“Whynotagun?”

“Themanwhokilledyourparents—heusedafirearm?”

“Yes.”

“Washeagreatwarrior?Washeevenanefficientkiller?”

“No,hewasathug,but—”

“The weapon is nothing, the man who wields it everything. Guns are crude and impersonal and a

bladeisnot.Withablade,youdomorethanlearncombat.Youdevelopcharacter.”

Ducard unsheathed his sword, held it in front of himself, and said, “I suppose ‘en garde’ would be

appropriatehere.”

Bruce and Ducard circled each other. Suddenly Ducard’s blade flashed forward, aimed at Bruce’s

chest.Brucedeflectedtheblowwithhisgauntlet-sheathedarm.Ducardglidedtohisleft,frozenbreath
streamingfromhisnostrils.Bruce,slidingtohisrighttoagainfaceDucard,heardtheicebeneathhim
creakandshift.Andthemutedgurgleofrunningwater.

“Mindyoursurroundings,always,”Ducardsaid.

Theyfenced.BrucethrustandDucardparried,BrucethrustagainandDucardturnedasidethepoint

of Bruce’s blade with his own. Their faces were inches apart; Bruce could feel the heat of Ducard’s
breathonhischeek.

“Yourparents’deathswerenotyourfault,”Ducardsaidconversationally.“Itwasyourfather’s.”

This remark consumed Bruce with rage. He abandoned all pretense of skill and swung his sword.

Ducard caught Bruce’s blade in the scallops of his gauntlet and rotated his arm, wrenching Bruce’s
swordfromhisgrasp.Theswordskiddedacrosstheice.

“Angerwillnotchangethefactthatyourfatherfailedtoact,”Ducardcontinued,asthoughhewas

discussingtheweather.

“Themanhadagun,”Bruceblurted.

“Wouldthatstopyou?”

“I’vehadtraining—”

“Thetrainingisnothing.Thewilliseverything.Thewilltoact.”

Ducard slashed downward at Bruce, who blocked the strike with his crossed, gauntleted forearms.

ThenBrucedroppedanddovebetweenDucard’slegs,slidingtowherehisswordhadstoppeditsskid.
Hegrabbeditandpivoted,hislegssweepingtowardDucard’slowerbody.Ducardjumpedstraightup
andBrucegrabbedDucard’sleftfootandyanked.DucardfellontohisbackasBrucescrambledtohis
feetandaimedhisswordatDucard’sbarethroat.ThepointstoppedonlyinchesfromDucard’sflesh.
Ducardlaystill,hisarmsathissides.

“Yield,”Brucecommanded.

“Youhaven’tbeatenme,”Ducardreplied.“You’vesacrificedsurefootingforakillingstroke.”

DucardtappedtheicebeneathBruce’sfeetwiththeflatofhissword.Therewasaloudcrackandthe

icetiltedandsplinteredandBruceplungedintothefreezingwater.

DucardwatchedBruceflounderforalmostafullminute,thenreacheddowntohelphimupandout.

Later that evening, next to a blazing campfire near the glacier, Bruce shed his jacket and shirt and

rubbedhisarms,tryingtocontroltheviolenceofhisshivering.

“Rubyourchest,”Ducardtoldhim.“Yourarmswilltakecareofthemselves.”

Brucebegantorubhistorso.

“You’restrongerthanyourfather,”Ducardsaid.

“Youdidn’tknowmyfather.”

“ButIknowtheragethatdrivesyou...thatimpossibleangerstranglingyourgriefuntilyourloved

ones’ memory is just poison in your veins. And one day you wish the person you loved had never
existedsoyou’dbesparedthepain.”

Bruce stopped what he was doing and looked at Ducard as though he had just found something

amazing.

“Iwasn’talwayshereinthemountains,”Ducardcontinued.“Once,Ihadawife.Mygreatlove.She

wastakenfromme.Likeyou,Iwasforcedtolearnthattherearethosewithoutdecency,whomustbe
foughtwithoutpityorhesitation.Yourangergivesyougreatpower,butifyouletit,itwilldestroyyou.
Asitalmostdidme.”

Brucetookhisshirtfromwhereithadbeendryingnearthefireandslippediton.“Whatstoppedit?”

“Vengeance.”

“That’snohelptome.”

“Whynot?”

FROMTHEJOURNALSOFRĀ’SALGHŪL

Inowknowwhatmyweaponmustbe.Mencommitfollyafterfollybecausetheyareafraid.Fear
wasoncemankind’smostpowerfulally,givingenormouspotencytotheinstinctforsurvival.Now,
fearhasbecomemankind’sgreatestenemy,andsuchistheobtusenessofmyracethatitsmembers
do not realize it is the most powerful element of human existence. It is what drives them to
embraceleaderswhooffernothingmorethanfalsepromisesofsecurityanddoctrinesthatassure
themthattheyareexemptfromtheinevitableconsequencesofbeingborn,andtodestroytheearth
withinsaneconsumptionthatdoesnothingmorethandistractthemfromtheirownmortality.They
venerate charlatans and deny what is necessary to their own well-being because they are afraid.
The situation is exacerbated by one of evolution’s cruelest jokes, the capability to deny to
themselveswhattheyaredoingevenastheyaredoingit.

Ihavelongtaughtmyfollowersthattoovercomefeartheymustfirstfaceit.AstheAmerican

psychologistRogersobserved,onecannotchangeuntilonehasacceptedoneselffully.LongagoI
learnedthatembraceofanydreadthatdwellswithinisnecessarytofulfillone’spotential.Ihave
alsoinstructedmyminionsinmanipulatinganenemy’sfear,intheuseoffearasatacticalweapon.
IamwoefullylateinrealizingthatfearcanalsobeastrategicweaponandIcanbasemywhole
campaignuponit.

Fearismyweapon.Ishallusefear.

CHAPTERSEVEN

ruce was aware that the months of brute labor on ancient ships had physically changed him,

coarsenedhisrichboy’spalmsandthickenedthemusclesofhisarms,chest,thighs.Hehadthoughtthat
by the time he was locked in the Chinese prison, the change was complete. But at Rā’s al Ghūl’s
monastery,herealizedthathismonthsatseahadonlybegunhistransformation.Helearnedadifferent
kind of power, one that came from the knowledge and efficient use of his body’s parts, not just raw,
untutoredstrength.Hismind,too,wasaltering.Hewascomingtodependonarelaxedalertnessrather
thanreasonedthought,whichwassometimesslowandnotalwaysreliable.

His training, of both mind and body, was of a kind he could not have imagined possible, and he

reveledinit.Heslept,withadozenothers,onathinfutonplacedonthefloorofachamberbelowthe
monastery’smainhall;heknewthattherewereothersleepingchambersbothinsidethemonasteryand
inoutbuildings.

Themonasteryitselfwasdividedintothreetiers.Thebottom,whereBruceslept,wasbarracks-style

livingquarters,foodstoragefacilities,akitchen,andadiningareaconsistingofseverallong,uncovered
tableswithbacklessbenchesalongeitherside.Thegroundfloorwasalmostcompletelyoccupiedbythe
hugemainhall,whereBrucehadfirstentered,andincludedRā’salGhūl’sthrone,whichwasseldomin
use.Atitsrearweretwolockeddoors—astorageareaofsomekind,Bruceguessed.Once,hespotteda
lineofworkerscarryingcratesthatboreredwarningsignsinfourlanguagesintooneoftheforbidden
chambers:explosives.Brucewonderedwhatusetheymightpossiblybeputto.

The top floor of the monastery was, on three sides, a mezzanine, with exits to the balcony that

overlookedtheglacier.Thefourthsidewasanotherforbiddenarea:thelivingquartersofRā’salGhūl
andDucard.Therewereseveraloutbuildingsthat,Bruceconcluded,wereforstorage.

Almost every day Bruce arose before dawn, wakened by the striking of a gong—almost, because

sometimesheandhismateswerenotrouseduntilthesunwashighabovetheneighboringpeaks.No
explanationforthedelaywasevergiven.Afteranhour’srunningalongtheridgeonwhichthebuildings
stood,oftenthroughdensesnowandicywinds,heatethefirstoftwodailymeals,usuallyvegetables
andrice,oragrainBrucecouldnotidentify.Todrink,therewasasmallcupoftea.

Atirregularintervals,themorningrunwascanceledandBruceandhismatespickedtheirwaydown

thetrailtothehamletBrucehadpassedthroughonhiswaytothemonastery.There,theyfoundstacks
ofboxesandsacks:supplies.Theyeachliftedsomethingand,slidingandstumbling,struggledbackup
themountain.Once,Brucesawthelittleboyhehadspokento,peekingaroundthecornerofahut.At
othertimes,duringthewarmersummermonths,heandhismateswereputtoworkinvegetablegardens
nearthehamlet.

“Itisimportantthatyoufeelaconnectiontowhatsustainsyou,”Ducardonceexplained.

Theregimenwasnotunlikewhatheknewofhowreligiouscommunitiesand,forthatmatter,military

boot camps operated. After breakfast, the group disbanded and each of the trainees did something
unique to himself. In Bruce’s case, this was what he later realized were exercises and techniques
designedtoincreasehisflexibilityandlitheness.Hedidyogastretchesandtrainedongymnast’sgear:
rings, rails, parallel bars, and vaulting horses. Gradually, his bulky muscles grew smaller and sleeker
and he was able to stretch and bend and twist his limbs in ways he would have once considered
impossible,ifnotfreakish.

Then,forseveralmonths,hedidverylittlethatwasphysicallydemanding.Ducardwouldgivehim

puzzles,orusingcards,flasharandomseriesofnumbersandshapesinfrontofhiseyesanddemandhe
reproducethemonpaper.Oraskhimtoworkarithmeticproblemsmentally.Orhavehimsitincertain
positionsforhours,orjuststandaloneinadarkroomorontheglacier.Hewastoldthathewasinthe
processoflearningwhathealreadyknewandthatthiswasnotaconundrum,justasimplefact—oneof
thefewtimesanyexplanationofanykindwasoffered.

WhenBruceresumedhisphysicaltraining,hewasswifterandstrongerthanever.

FROMTHEJOURNALSOFRĀ’SALGHŪL

BruceWayneapparentlythinksthathistraininghereisakintothetraininghewouldreceiveata
military or religious installation. Such is his intelligence that he will surely come to realize that
whatmostmilitaryandreligiousleadersdoistominimizeindividualityandmaximizesamenessin
their charges. Indeed, that is what we do with most of those we recruit so their actions and
effectivenessbecomebothoptimalandpredictable.

However, for centuries the League of Shadows has known that one must deal with

extraordinarily gifted individuals differently. We seek to plumb their depths and discover all the
strengthwithinthem,bothphysicalandmental.Wenextdeviseaplantoallowthemtoaccessand
increasetheirinnatepowers.Mostoftheirweaknessesweignore,foriftheyareasintelligentas
weknowtheyare,theywillcompensateformostoftheirweaknesseswithnohelpfromwithout.
Fearisalwaysthegreatexceptiontothis.Fearisusuallythelastenemyamanconquersandtodo
sohemustbeforcedtodowhateverisnecessary.Itisunfortunatethatmostmenfailthisultimate
test.

Atnooneachday,Brucejoinedhisfellowtraineesfortheday’ssecondandfinalmeal,usuallyidentical
towhattheyhadhadforbreakfast,butoccasionallyspicedwithasliveroffishorsmokedmeat.There
was no tea at this second meal, just water from the glacier. Bruce had eaten in the world’s premier
restaurantswithhisparents,bothathomeandinEuropeandAsiaduringfamilyvacations,haddinedon
thefinesteffortsofthefinestchefs,andhadneverenjoyedanyfoodsomuchasRā’salGhūlsstarkly
simplefare.Notbecauseofthefooditself,thoughitwasinevitablyfreshandwellprepared,butbecause
hewaslearningtoreallytastewhatwentintohismouth.

Afterlunch,moreexercises.Atdusk,anotherrunoutsideandthen,asthesunwasvanishingbelow

themountainsandlongshadowsspreadacrosstheglacier,tobed.

Bruce was always asleep within seconds of touching the futon. If he had dreams, he did not

rememberthem.

Hesensedthatnothingwasdonerandomly—thateveryactivity,howeverinconsequential,waspartof

acarefullyplannedcurriculum.

He had been in the monastery for months before he was taught actual combat. His tutors were not

kind.Onthecontrary.DucardandtheninjaswhotaughtBrucewereunrelentinglycriticalandshowed
absolutely no tolerance of blunders. And blunder he did. He often felt as though he were wearing
cardboard boxes for shoes and concrete gloves. He had imagined himself well versed in martial arts
from his shipboard ordeals and the adventures he had had in ports of call, and in fact, after the first
humiliatingmonths,hehadwonmostofhisfights.Butagainsttheopponentshefacedinthemonastery,
hewasclumsy,oafish,moreclownthancombatant.

Buthelearned.Andhedidnotmakethesamemistaketwice.

For a long period, he was physically challenged to his utmost, forced to defend himself until his

breathexplodedfromhislungsandhecouldfeeltheadrenalinecoursingthroughhisveinsandsweat
coatinghisentirebody.Then,abruptly,DucardwouldstopthecombatandhaveBrucedobreathingand
visualization exercises. And then he would again be attacked. Eventually, Bruce decided that the
purposeofthisdrillwastoteachhimtobeascalmduringcombatashewasafterward—totrainhim
nevertoallowbodychemistrytoimpairhisjudgment.Ducard,asusual,neitherconfirmednordenied
Bruce’sconclusion.

FROMTHEJOURNALSOFRĀ’SALGHŪL

ManyyearspastIthoughtIhadlostmycapacityforamazementataboutthesametimethatIlost
my capacity for affection. I was mistaken. Bruce Wayne amazes me every day. He has already
developedfarbeyondanystudentIhaveeverhadandthereseemstobenolimittohispotential.

I have begun to have thoughts that disturb me because they fill me with what I fear is a false

hope.TheyconcernmydaughterTaliaandBruceWayne.Taliaisofanagetoreproduceandcarry
mylineageforwardintothenewworldIshallcreate.NomanIhaveevermetuntilnowhasbeen
worthyofminglinghisgeneswithminenorworthyofthecompanyofmydaughter.BruceWayne
maybeanexceptiontothisunhappyrule.

If I have a son of my own I will not need Bruce Wayne and Talia may then devote herself

entirely to my comfort and convenience. But none of my consorts have given me the male
offspring I desire. A noble son-in-law may in the long run prove to be as satisfactory as a noble
son.

Bruce Wayne may yet prove unworthy of the beneficence I contemplate bestowing upon him.

Thereisyetaheadofhimtheultimatetestthatheliketheotherswillsurelyfail.Ifhedoesnotfail
itIwillsummonTalia.

Bruce seldom saw Rā’s al Ghūl and wondered if their mysterious host even lived at the monastery.
Sometimes,though,Rā’sappearedonhisraisedplatform,oronthebalconyoverlookingtheglacier,and
watched,erectandmotionless,hishandshiddeninhissleeves.Heneverspoke,normadeanykindof
soundatall,buthispresencewasalwayspalpable.

Rā’s was on the platform the morning Bruce, bare-chested and wearing shorts, was fighting with a

baldJapanesemanofhisownsizeandbuild.Someoneshoutedhisnameandforperhapsahalfsecond
Brucewasdistracted.CouldhehavebeencalledbyRā’shimself?No,thevoicehadbeenDucard’s.His

opponentstrucktwice,tothechestandjaw,andBrucedropped.

WhenBrucefullyregainedhissenses,Rā’swasgone.

DucardsteppedforwardandlookeddownatBrucewithdisgust.“Childish,Wayne.”

“Resume!”Ducardordered,motioningtotheJapanesemanwhohadknockedBrucedown,andafew

secondslater,Brucewaspunching,blocking,kicking,ignoringeverythingexcepttheopponentinfront
ofhim.

Sointentwasheonhistraining,soinvolvedinthetasksDucardsetforhim,thatBruceallbutforgot

thatmonthswerepassing,thatthecoloroftheskyandtheangleatwhichthesunhittheglacierchanged
andtheairbothinsideandoutsidethemonasterywaswarmer,thencolder.

Later,hereckonedthathehadbeenatthemonasteryjustunderayearandthat,aftertheinitialperiod

of adjustment, he was happy in the rambling building above the glacier. He forgot his old life, in
Gothamandoncampusesandthejet-setwateringholesoftheworldand,eventually,hismemoryofhis
parents also dimmed. What was the color of his father’s hair? Of his mother’s eyes? How did they
soundinthemorning?Atbedtime?Hecouldsummonthememoriesbyforce—hehadlearnedthathe
could summon any memory by force—but they did not come unbidden into his dreams now. But the
sightofthemsprawledinthestreetamidbloodypearls—thatdidnotdiminish,nordidthehotbiteof
hatethatinevitablyaccompaniedit.

Heneverlearnedthenamesofhisfellowtrainees,andtherehadbeenhundredsofthem.Ducardhad

madeitknownthatanyunnecessaryfraternizationwouldbeseverelypunishedandnoonedoubtedhim.
But Bruce felt close to these anonymous men of varied nationalities, closer than he had ever felt to
anyoneexcepthismotherandfatherandAlfred.Theymayhavebeennameless,buttheywerepiecesof
somethingofwhichhe,too,wasapartandthatgavehimacommonalitywiththemthatoftenfeltlike
affection.

None of them stayed for long. A new group seemed to arrive every few weeks or so, receive

instruction, and leave. Only Bruce remained, although his skills were plainly superior to those of
everyoneexceptDucard.Hewouldask,“DoesRā’salGhūlhavesomethingspecialinmindforme?”
andDucardwouldturnaway,refusingtoanswer.

Eventually,hestoppedasking.

Ducard remained aloof, always the savagely forthright instructor, never the friendly mentor, but a

bondgrewbetweenhimandBruceregardless.Brucecouldnothavegivenitalabel,orevendescribed
it.Inneitherhispersonalexperiencenorhisreadinghadheencounteredanythinglikeit.Butheknewit
wasthere,asheknewhehadbloodinhisveins.

Was it possible to love a man who did little more than brutalize one? Was Bruce Wayne, this

pampered child of privilege, suffering from some form of the Stockholm syndrome, becoming
emotionallyattachedtohisenemy?Hehadquestionshecouldnotpossiblyanswer,atleastnotyet,not
here.Hedidnotforgetthem,buthedidnotworryaboutthem,either.

Therewasascreamfromthefarendofthemonastery.Brucesawtwowarriorsdraggingthemanwho

hadscreamedtowardanironcage.

“Whoishe?”Bruceasked,gettingtohisfeet.

“He was a farmer. Then he tried to take his neighbor’s land and became a murderer. Now he’s a

prisoner.”

Theportlyfarmerwaslockedinthecageandthecagewaswinchedtenfeetoffthefloor.

“Whatwillhappentohim?”Bruceasked.

“Justice.Crimecannotbetolerated.Criminalsthriveontheindulgenceofsociety’s‘understanding.’

Youknowthis.”

Brucenodded,staringatthemaninthecage.

“Orwhenyoulivedamongthecriminals...didyoumakethesamemistakeasyourfather?”Ducard

asked.“Didyoustarttopitythem?”

Brucerememberedthefeelingofahollowbellyandawide-eyedchildinanalleyandthetasteofa

ripeplum.

He said, “The first time you steal so that you don’t starve, you lose many assumptions about the

simplenatureofrightandwrong.”

FROMTHEJOURNALSOFRĀ’SALGHŪL

TheagonyofsuspenseIhaveenduredthispastyearwillendwithintwenty-fourhours.Thoughhe
himselfhasnoinklingofit,BruceWaynewillfacehisfinaltrialsverysoon.Hisskillwillbetested
andalsohiscourageandhisresolve.Wewilllearniffearstilldwellswithinhimandhowhehas
confronteditifitdoes.Wewillfinallycometoknowifhehaswhatweakmencallruthlessness.
For if the world is to be saved it will be saved by those willing to do all that may be necessary.
There will be a time for weeping and lamenting and even regret that draconian measures were
needed,butthattimewillbelaterwhenwehaveaccomplishedourtasksandcanaffordtheluxury
oftheweakeremotions.

IactuallyhavelittledoubtthatthebloodofBruceWaynewillleakontothefloorboardsofthe

monasteryandwewillusefiretodisposeofhisremains.Hewilldieashisdozensofpredecessors
havediedandindyingprovehimselftobeatlastunworthy.

IfhecontinuestobreathetwodaysfromnowIwillallowmyselftorejoiceandIwillsummon

TaliatoreturnfromSwitzerland.

Itwouldbegoodtoseemydaughteroncemore.

Thatnight,asBrucelaydownonhisfuton,Ducard,cladinaninjauniform,ashortswordslungacross
hisback,cametothedoorwayandspokehisname.Brucerose,dressed,andfollowedDucardacrossa
moonlitcourtyardtothethroneroom.Inside,theywenttoaworkbenchsetagainstawall,andDucard
said,“Youtraveledtheworldtounderstandthecriminalmindandconqueryourfear.”

Ducardtookfromhispocketadriedflower,theshriveledbluepoppyBrucehadlongagocarriedto

themonastery.Ducardputitinastonemortarandusedastonepestletogrindittodust.“Butacriminal
isn’tcomplicated,”hesaid.“Andwhatyoureallyfearisinsideyourself.Youfearyourownpower.Your
ownanger.Thedrivetodogreatorterriblethings...Youmustjourneyinward.”

Ducard poured the dust into a small brazier, struck a long wooden match, and set it aflame. A thin

columnofsmokerose,twisted,curled.DucardmotionedBrucecloser.“Drinkinyourfears.Facethem.
Youareready.”

Bruceunderstoodwithoutfurtherinstruction.Heinhaledthesmokeandshookhishead.Timeroiled

andshiftedinsidehisskullandhesaw:

...himselffallingintothewell...

...screechingbatsexplodingfromthecreviceandtearingathim...

...Fatherstaringdownataredsplotchonthesnowywhiteshirtthatspreadoutwardfromasmall,

blackhole...

...bloodypearlsspillingpastBruce’sfaceandclatteringlightlyonthepavement...

Bruceshookhisheadviolentlyandblinkedhiseyes.Soreal,thevisionsaresoreal...

Ducard tugged a ninja mask over his head. He pulled a second mask from under his jacket and

handedittoBruce.

“Toconquerfearyoumustbecomefear,”hesaidasBruceputonthemask.“Youmustbaskinthe

fearofothermen...andmenfearmostwhattheycannotsee.”

Ducard raised a hand and a dozen ninjas congealed from the shadows: not the trainees Bruce had

cometoknowbysight,ifnotbyname—no,althoughthesewarriorswerecompletelycoveredbytheir
uniformsandmasks,Brucesomehowknewtheywerefullytrained,andhehadnodoubtthattheywere
ruthless.

“Itisnotenoughtobeaman,”Ducardsaid.“Youhavetobecomeanidea...aterriblethought...a

wraith—”

SuddenlyDucarddrewhisswordandslashedatBruce’sthroat—astrikethatwouldhavedecapitated

Bruceifithadconnected.

Itdidnot:Brucehadspunoutofitspath.

TheninjasclosedonBruce,surroundinghim.Thentheypartedtorevealalong,wide,flatwooden

box:acoffinforagiant?Brucegazedatit,stilldisorientedfromthesmokehehadinhaled.

Fromthedarkness,Ducardspoke:“Embraceyourworstfear...”

Cautiously,Bruceapproachedthebox,liftedthelid,andpeeredinside.Foramoment,heheardthe

flappingofleatherywings—

Andthescenethatwasstillechoinginhismemorybecamereal:screechingbatstearingathim...

Brucedoveawayfromthebox,rolled,staringatthebats,blinkingandflinching...

“Becomeonewiththedarkness,”Ducardsaidfromsomegreatdistance.

Theninjasattacked.

Bruce should have been terrified. These men were killers and all had survived the ordeals that had

beenvisitedonBruceandtheyoutnumberedhimatleasttwelvetoone.Theywerearmed,andhisonly
weaponwashisbody.Theywerealertandhewasstillgroggyfromthesmoke.

He should have been terrified, and immediately killed, and if he had taken even a second to think

abouthissituation,hewouldhavebeen.Buthedidnot.No,hemerelydidas,withoutknowingit,he
hadbeenlearningtodoalltheseyears.Hebecamefullyinthemomentandletawisdomdeeperand
vastlyquickerthanthoughtguidehismovements.

Aninjajabbed.Brucepivotedandkickedtheman’sarm,andastheswordflewfromtheman’sgrasp

Brucesentapalmstriketotheman’schinandcaughttheswordasitfell.

AbladerippedBruce’ssleeveandtheskinbeneathit.Bruceretaliatedbyswipinghisbladeagainst

hisattacker’sarmandleapingoverandbehindthebox.

Intherafters,batsflappedandscreeched.

Onthefloor,Brucewhirledandleaped,pivoted,thrust,parried,movingassilentlyasfogamongthe

black-cladassassins.

Ducardleapedforwardintothecenteroftheninjas.Hekickedthefaceofaninjawithatornsleeve.

ThemanfelltohiskneesandDucardputhisswordtotheman’sthroat.

“Yoursleeve,Wayne,”hesaid.“Badmistake.Youcannotleaveanysign.”

FrombehindDucard,Brucesaid,“Ihaven’t.”

TheedgeofhisswordwasagainstDucard’sthroat.

Ducardglancedattheninjas.Fiveofthemhadslashedsleeves.Hegesturedandtheninjasfellback,

loweringtheirweapons.

Fromacrossthechambertherecamethesoundofclapping.Rā’salGhūlsatonhisthrone,watching

andslappinghislongpalmstogether.

“Impressive,”Rā’ssaidinEnglish.ItwasthefirsttimeBrucehadheardhiminmonths.

Brucepulledoffhismaskandbowedhisheadinacknowledgmentofthecompliment.

Theninjassat.DucardescortedBrucetotheplatformonwhichRā’ssatandstoodbesidehim.Rā’s

rose,his robes rustling,and led Bruceand Ducard to asmoking brazier witha branding iron sticking
fromtheglowingcoals.ThenRā’sbegantospeakinUrdu.

Ducard translated: “We have purged your fear. You are ready to lead these men. You are ready to

becomeamemberoftheLeagueofShadows.”

Rā’s again struck his palms together, not in applause but command. Two ninjas dragged the portly,

frightened prisoner from a doorway and shoved him down next to the brazier. Bruce recognized him
immediately:thefarmer,themurdererwhohadbeencaged.

Rā’s pointed a thin, straight finger at the prisoner and spoke. Ducard translated: “First you must

demonstrateyourcommitmenttojustice.”

Ducard handed Bruce a sword. Bruce looked at the prisoner, whose eyes were pleading pools of

terror.

“No,”Brucesaid,addressingRā’s.“Iamnotanexecutioner.”

Ducardsaid,“Yourcompassionisaweaknessyourenemieswillnotshare.”

“That’swhyit’ssoimportant.Itseparatesmefromthem.”

“Youwanttofightcriminals.Thismanisamurderer.”

“Thismanshouldbetried.”

“By whom?” Ducard demanded. “Corrupt bureaucrats? Criminals mock society’s laws. You know

thisbetterthanmost.”

Rā’salGhūlsteppedforwardandinthicklyaccentedEnglishsaid,“Youcannotleadmenunlessyou

arepreparedtodowhatisnecessarytodefeatevil.”

“WherewouldIbeleadingthesemen?”Bruceaskedhim.

“Gotham City. As Gotham City’s favorite son you will be ideally placed to strike at the heart of

criminality.”

“How?”

“Gotham City’s time has come. Like Constantinople or Rome before it—grounds for suffering and

injustice—itisbeyondsavingandmustbeallowedtodie...Thisisthemostimportantfunctionofthe
LeagueofShadows.Itisonewehaveperformedforcenturies.GothamCitymustbedestroyed.”

BruceturnedtoDucard.“Youcan’tbelievethis.”

“Rā’salGhūlhasrescuedusfromthedarkestcornersofourownhearts,”Ducardreplied.“Whathe

asksinreturnisthecouragetodowhatisnecessary.”

Brucesaid,“I’llgobacktoGotham.AndI’llfightmenlikethis.ButIwon’tbeanexecutioner.”

Ducard’sreplywaswhispered,almostaplea:“Wayne,foryourownsake...thereisnoturningback

...”

Bruceraisedhissword.TheprisonerraisedhisgazetoBruceandhislipsmovedsoundlessly.

Bruce struck downward, his blade missing the prisoner’s neck by inches and hitting the white-hot

brandingiron,flippingitoffthebrazier.Itarcedhighintotheairandspunintothedooroftheroom
whereexplosiveswerestored.Thedoorinstantlysmolderedandtinytonguesofflameappearedwhere
theironhadstruck.

“Whatareyoudoing?”Ducardshouted.

“What’snecessary,”BrucesaidandhitDucard’sheadwiththeflatofhissword.

Rā’s al Ghūl had a Chinese sword in his hands almost instantly. He thrust at Bruce and Bruce

deflectedthebladewithhisown.Brucereturnedtheattack,drivingRā’sbackwardandofftheplatform.

Anexplosionshookthehallandflamingdebrisspoutedfromtheexplosivesroom.

Rā’signoredthefireandnoiseandrenewedhisassault.Bruce’seyesstungandhecoughed;hecould

barely see Rā’s through the smoke. He was aware of men running past him, scrambling toward the
doors.Buthedarednotjointhem:themomentheturnedhisback,heknew,Rā’swouldkillhim.

For an instant, fear intruded into Bruce’s consciousness: This is Rā’s al Ghūl! This is the master! I

cannotpossiblydefeathim!

Butevenasthisthoughtflittedacrosshismind,Bruceknewitwaswrong.Themanbeforehimwas

formidable,true,butonlyhighlyskilled,notsuperhuman.Brucehadfoughttougheropponents,Ducard
among them. Perhaps Rā’s had erected a reputation and was hiding behind it. Perhaps it was more
illusionthanreality.

ThenBrucestoppedthinkingandagainbecameonewiththemoment.

HeblinkedandsawRā’sagainchargingathim.Asecondexplosionshookthehallandsuddenlya

slabofroof,fullyablaze,fellontoRā’s,buryinghim.

Ididn’twanthimtodie...

Theback of themonastery was aholocaust. Bruce ran forthe front, jumpingover chunks of wood

andbrokenfurniturethatlitteredthefloor.

Ducardlaydirectlyinhispath,betweenhimandtheexit.Intheflickeroftheflames,Brucecouldsee

thatDucard’sheadwasbloodyandhishairwaspartiallyburnedaway.

Bruce knelt and shouted Ducard’s name: no response, Bruce got his shoulder under Ducard’s and

hoisted the unconscious man into a fireman’s carry. But he could go no farther; a sheet of flame was
nowbetweenhimandsafety.

He looked around, trying to see through the dense smoke. The steps to the mezzanine were still

intact.Bruce,withDucardoverhisshoulders,ranupthem.Hewentontothebalcony.Athirdexplosion
rockedtheboardsbeneathhisfeetandsomeofthemtorefreeoftheirmoorings.Inasecondortwo,the
balconywouldcollapse.

Therewasfiredirectlybelow,gushingfromtheexplosivesroom.Iftheyfellintoit,theywouldbe

incinerated.

Brucekickedasidethebalconyrailing,tooktwostepsback,ranforward,andleaped.Histrajectory

carriedhimandDucardovertheflamesanddownasteepslopecoveredwithice.Theylandedwitha
joltandDucardslippedfromBruce’sgrasp.Bothmenslidtowardacliff,afour-hundred-footdropto
theglacierbelow.Bruce’sgropinghandfoundarockandclosedaroundit.Hismomentumhalted.But
Ducard’sdidnot;hisrotatingbodywasgainingspeed.

Brucereleasedhisholdontherock,pivotedonhisstomach,straightened,andhandsclaspedinfront

ofhim,hedoveheadfirstdowntheslope.Onlyinchesfromtheedgeofthecliff,BrucecaughtDucard’s
upper arm. Both of them continued to slide. Bruce raised his gauntlet-clad forearm and smashed the
bronzescallopsintotheice.HeandDucardstopped,withDucard’slegsdanglingoverthecliff.

Bruce allowed himself a minute to calm his breathing before digging the scallops on his other arm

intotheice,abitfartheruptheslope.

Thiswilltakeawhile...

Sometimelater,hedraggedDucardoverthelipoftheslopeandontoflatground,slushyfrommelted

ice. Nothing much was left of the monastery, just the stone foundation and a few gaunt, blackened
timbers,bitsofflamedancingalongthem,silhouettedagainsttheafternoonsky.Despitetheice,there
had been neither rain nor snowfall for weeks. The monastery had been dry as kindling. The snow
aroundtheruinwastrampled,sometracksleadingtothetraildownthemountain,otherstothepathto
theglacier.Brucewonderediftheninjashadaplannedescaperouteoriftheyhadmerelyrunfromthe
inferno.

Brucesawnoone.HeconsideredgoingintotheremainsofthemonasterytoseeifhecouldfindRā’s

alGhūl.ButRā’swassurelydeadandDucardmightsoonbeifhedidnotgethelp.

HeshookDucard:noresponse.HehoistedDucardontohisshouldersandwenttothetrailleadingto

thehamlet.Nowtremblingwithexhaustion,Brucedescendedit.Hearrivedasthesunwasreddening
theeasternpeaks.Asusual,thetinysettlementseemedtobedeserted.Hepoundedthedoorofthefirst
huthecametoanditimmediatelyopened.InsidestoodtheoldmanBrucehadspokentoonhisinitial
trek up the mountain. Bruce entered and, heeding the old man’s gesture, lay Ducard down on some
strawmats.TheoldmanwipedbloodfromDucard’stemple,puthiseartoDucard’schest,feltDucard’s
pulse.Henodded.Foramoment,BruceandtheoldmanstoodoneithersideofDucard,lookingateach
other.ThenBruceshruggedandwenttothedoor.

“Iwilltellhimyousavedhislife,”theoldmansaidinEnglish.

“Tellhim...Ihaveanailingancestorwhoneedsme.”Bruceflattenedhispalmsinfrontofhischest

andbowedhishead.

TheoldmanpointedtoastainonBruce’sjacket.“Itisblood.Doyouwishtocleanit?”

“Notnecessary.”

Bruceleftthehut.Helookedupatwherehehadcomefromandsawwispsofsmokerisingagainst

theeveningsky,andthendown,atthetrailtothevillageandprison.Whichway?Nochoice,really.He

startedtowardthetrail.Thedoortoanotherofthehutsopenedandthelittleboyhehadseenduringhis
firstvisitranout,carryingabundlewrappedinsackcloth.HehandedittoBruceand,withoutsaying
anything or waiting to be thanked, vanished into the hut and closed the door. Bruce unwrapped the
bundle enough to see what was inside: a clay bowl full of rice with a chunk of brown bread and two
crudechopsticksontop.Lunch.Brucebowedtotheboy’shutandmoveddownthetrail.

Theairwaschilly,butnotcold,asithadbeenonthemountaintop,andthenextmorning,brightsun

graduallywarmedBruce.Whenitwasdirectlyoverhead,heperchedonaboulder,openedthebundle,
andatethericeandbread.

Thesunwaslowwhenhefinallyreachedthetrail-headandcontinuedpastitontheroadthearmy

truckhadtakenayearearliertothetown—orsmallcity?—neartheprison.Hisplan,suchasitwas,was
to beg for food and money until he had enough for a telephone call to the United States—to Gotham
CityandWayneManorandAlfred.Itmighttakedays,butitwouldprobablybefasterthanfindinga
berthonashipboundforAmerica.

Buthegotlucky.Ashewashunkeringdownataroadsidenearthemarketplace,nowalmostdeserted

asdarknessinchedoverthearea,hemetanoldshipmate,abosun’smate,whowasaccompaniedbya
slenderwomanwhoseeyesweredowncastandwhosewholedemeanorwasoneofextremeshyness.

“Hello,myoldshipmate,”thebosunyelledinbreathladenwithrum.“Rememberme—Hector.Ibeat

youupplenty.”

“Istillbearthescars,”Bruceanswered,grinningandshakingHector’shand.

“Guesswhat?Iamhusbandnow.Howyoulikethat?”

“Congratulations.”

Hectorsaidthatheandthewomanhadjustgottenmarried,thatveryafternoon,merehoursago,and

werecelebratinganddidhisdearoldshipmatewantforanything,anythingatallinthisblessedworld?
Intheend,aftermorehand-shakingandmuchback-pounding,thebosun’smategaveBrucethemoney
he needed and, with promises that they would get together soon, put his arm around his new wife’s
shouldersandstumbledtowardanearbyinn.

Brucelocatedamerchantwhoofferedlong-distancetelephoneserviceandpersuadedhimtoremain

openlongenoughforBrucetomakehiscall.

Therewasnoanswer.PerhapsAlfredwashavingoneofhisweeklynightsawayfromthebighouse.

Bruceleftamessageontheansweringmachineand,thankingthemerchantforhiskindness,lefttoseek
aplacetosleep.

Hefinallysettledforaculvert.Heputathinlayerofdriedgrassontheroundedbottomandlayonit.

He was cold and uncomfortable and seven years ago that would have been a problem. But now, he
simply accepted the cold and the discomfort, instead of fighting them, and slept for the five hours he
needed.

The next morning, just after sunrise, he walked around, seeking food. He was not discomfortingly

hungry,notyet,buthehadeatenonlytheboy’sriceandbreadinthelastdayandhisbodywouldneed
fuelsoon.Hesawamendicantmonk,barefootandwearinganorangerobe,goingfromhousetohouse
andholdingoutabowlintowhichhouseholdersputamorseloffood.Bruceapproachedthemonk,who
seemedtoimmediatelyguesswhatBrucemightwant,andgavehimhalfofwhatwasinthebowl.

Atabouteight,BrucereturnedtowherehehadmadethecalltoAlfred.Themerchantwaswaitingfor

him. Alfred had already returned the call and made the necessary arrangements, which the merchant

read to Bruce from a sheet of lined paper. Again, Bruce thanked the merchant and began to follow
Alfred’sinstructions.

TwodayslaterBrucewasinKathmandu,standingattheendofanunpavedlandingstrip.Therewasa

corrugatedsteelshedattheotherend,withapoleflyingawindsock,andnothingelse.Adotappeared
in the eastern sky, black against a huge, billowing cloud, and grew larger and resolved itself into an
airplane, which landed and taxied to a stop. It was a Wayne Enterprises jet, gleaming and in perfect
condition.

Bruce ran toward it. The exit hatch opened and a small set of steps thudded to the dirt. Alfred,

immaculateinapressedsuit,descendedand,whenBrucestoppedinfrontofhim,said,“MasterBruce.
It’sbeensometime.”

Brucesmiled.“Yes.Yesithas.”

It had been seven years since he had last looked at Alfred Pennyworth, and in some fundamental

waysBrucewasnotthesamemanwhohadleftAmericaasastowawayonatrampfreighter.Buthefelt
recognitionandafamiliar,immenseaffectionfortheelegant,courtlygentlemanwhostoodbeforehim.

AlfredlookedatBruce,scanninghimfromhairlinetofeet.Bruceknewwhathewasseeing—along-

haired,bearded,sootymanwearingblackrags.“Youlookratherfashionable,”Alfredsaid.“Apartfrom
thedriedblood.”

BrucefollowedAlfredintotheaircraft.Thehatchclosedandtheenginesrevvedandwithinseconds

theywereairborne.Theinterioroftheplanewaswellappointed,withleatherseats,apaddedbulkhead,
and first-class food service. Alfred gave Bruce a glass of orange juice, which tasted as though it was
fresh-pressed,andsettledintoaseatacrossfromhim.

“AreyoucomingbacktoGothamforgood?”heasked.

“Aslongasittakes.”Brucesippedtheorangejuice.“I’mgoingtoshowGothamthatthecitydoesn’t

belongtothecriminalsandthecorrupt.”

Alfredleanedbackinhischairandsaid,“DuringthedepressionyourfathernearlybankruptedWayne

Enterprises combating poverty. He believed that his example would inspire the wealthy of Gotham to
savetheircity.”

“Didit?”

“Inaway...yourparents’murdershockedthewealthyandpowerfulintoaction.”

Brucenodded.“Peopleneeddramaticexamplestoshakethemoutofapathy.Ican’tdothisasBruce

Wayne.Amanisjustflesh-and-bloodandcanbeignoredordestroyed.Butasymbol...asasymbolI
canbeincorruptible,everlasting.”

“Whatsymbol?”

“I’mnotsureyet.Somethingelemental.Somethingterrifying.”

“I assume, sir, that since you’re taking on the underworld that this ‘symbol’ is a persona to protect

thoseyouareabouttoendangerfromreprisal?”

Brucenoddedagain.“You’rethinkingaboutRachel?”

“Actually,sir,Iwasthinkingofmyself.”

“HaveyoutoldanyonethatI’mcomingback?”

“Ihaven’tfiguredoutthelegalramificationsofraisingyoufromthedead.”

“Dead?”

“It’sbeensevenyears.”

“Youhadmedeclareddead?”

“Actually, it was Mr. Earle. He wanted to liquidate your majority shareholding. He’s taking the

companypublic.Yoursharesbroughtinanenormousamountofcapital.”

“GoodthingIlefteverythingtoyou,then.”

“Quiteso,sir.”Alfredclosedhiseyes.“You’rewelcometoborrowtheRolls,bytheway.Justbringit

backwithafulltank.”

The plane refueled once that day, and twice more before flying over a Gotham City whose spires

werecatchingthegoldoffirstmorninglight.Brucepeeredfromhiswindowdownataplacehehadnot
seeninalongtime,andwonderedwhatdramaswereoccurringinitsstreets.

PARTII

BATMAN

CHAPTEREIGHT

ruce considered making a big show of his return to Gotham but decided against it. Oh, he would

certainlyrevealhimselfwithallappropriatebellsandwhistlessoonerorlater,andprobablysooner,but
firsthewantedtoaccomplishafewthingswithoutbeingscrutinizedbyeverygossiphoundontheEast
Coast.

ThefirstitemonBruce’sagendawastofindoutjustwhoandwhathehadspentthelastyearofhis

lifewith.NeitherDucardnoranyofthetraineesexplainedtheexactnatureoftheLeagueofShadows,
muchlessanyofitsparticulars—whenithadoriginated,howitwasfinanced,andmostimportant,what
itspurposewas.

Bruce asked Alfred for help and so Alfred spent five days in various Gotham City libraries, and

anotherdaytelephoningprofessorsatthelocaluniversities.Unfortunately,helearnedverylittle.

On the morning of Bruce’s sixth day back, he and Alfred met in the library after a late breakfast.

Alfredflippedbackthecoverofanotebookandsaid,“I’mafraidImustdisappointyou,MasterBruce.”

“Youneverhave,Alfred.”

“Thenyouareabouttoexperienceanhistoricfirst.AllImanagedtogleanregardingthis‘Leagueof

Shadows’isthatnoonebelievesiteverreallyexisted.Itseemstobeachimericalorganizationlikethe
IlluminatiortheOrderofSt.Dumas.Thereareafewscatteredlegendsconcerningit,butaccordingto
mysources,notascrapofgenuineevidence.”

“Nothingwrittendown?Memoirs,businesspapers...”

“Absolutelynothing.”

“Well, I hate to contradict the experts, but they’re wrong with a capital W. I didn’t imagine the

monastery,Ducard,Rā’salGhūl,andalltherest.”

“I am reminded of something the French poet Charles Baudelaire once wrote. ‘The devil’s deepest

wileistopersuadeusthathedoesnotexist.’”

“Alfred,Ihadnoideayouweresoerudite.”

“I’mnot.IwasdustingabookofFrenchverseonedayandithappenedtofallopenand...”Alfred

tiltedhisheadtoonesideandshrugged,asiftosay,Whatisonetodo?Thesethingshappen.

Bruce thanked Alfred, borrowed the notebook, and drove his Lamborghini Murcielago toward the

city.HewassurethatAlfredhadbeenthorough,buthewasstillnotsatisfied.

Itwon’tkillmetofindoutwhatIcanlearnonmyown...

Theonethinghehadlikedwhenhehadtakenhisfewliberalartscourseswasdoingresearchpapers.

There was something about pursuing a fact and finding it despite obstacles that he found deeply
satisfying.HerememberedagradstudentatGothamU.:SandraFlanders.Whenhewasafreshman,she
had once pointed him in a fruitful direction and, at the time, confessed that she wanted nothing more

from life than to be a research librarian. He remembered reading somewhere—the alumni newspaper
stillsenttohisfather?—thatSandrahad,indeed,doneexactlythat.Shewasnowtheuniversity’schief
researcher.

BruceparkedtheLamborghiniinthevisitors’lotamidaclusterofhugeSUVsandwalkedacrossa

quadrangle toward the administration building. The campus had deteriorated since his last visit. The
grasswasbadlyinneedofmowing,thesidewalkswerecrackedanduneven,thepaintonthewallsof
the buildings was faded and peeling. But the coeds he passed were pretty and the male students
certainlyseemedenergetic.ThreeofthemwerethrowingaFrisbeearound.Oneofthemmissedacatch
andthediskspuntowardBruce.Hecaughtitandsentitback—abittoohard.Itstruckayoung,blond-
hairedmaninthechestandalmostknockedhimover.

“Sorry,”Bruceshouted,andwonderedtohimself:Couldthosethingsbeadaptedtoweapons?

He entered the admin building and wrinkled his nose. Was that urine he was smelling? Could it

possiblybe?Hewentthroughadoormarked

INFORMATION

andspoketoamiddle-agedmanwhosetrim

haircutandpressedsuitwereinmarkedcontrasttohissurroundings.Hewaspoliteandhelpfulandable
todirectBrucetoSandraFlanders’soffice.

Brucerecrossedthequadrangletothelibrary,climbedaflightofstairsoffthemainlobby,andfound

SandraFlandersbehindalargewoodendesk,surroundedbythousandsofshelvedbooks,peeringata
computerscreen.Theplacesmelledofoldleatherandoldpaper—anicesmell,thiswas,unlikewhathe
hadsniffedintheadminbuilding.ItremindedBruceofthelibraryinWayneManor.Whenheentered,
Sandraraisedhereyesandsmiledawelcome.Shewasinherlatethirties,withdarkbrownhair,regular
features,andatrimfigure.Brucewonderedifheshouldtellherhisrealidentity,butdecidedagainstit.
HeandAlfredhadyettosortoutwhatAlfredhadcalled“thelegalramificationsofraisingyoufromthe
dead.”

Butwouldsheremember,andrecognize,him?Onewaytofindout...

Bruceextendedhishand.“Ms.Flanders?I’m...GeneValley.”

“Youremindmeofsomeone...Bruce.BruceWayne?”

“Mycousin.Somesaytheresemblanceisuncanny.”Hesighed.“PoorBruce.”

“Whathappenedtohim?Iheardhejustvanished.”

“Yes.Severalyearsago.Perhapshe’llturnupsomeday...ButIneedyourhelpnow.”

“WhatcanIdoforyou?”

BrucetoldherabouttheLeagueofShadowsandsawthatshewasimmediatelyinterested.Obviously,

Ms.Flandersenjoyedachallenge.Sheproceededtodazzlehim.Hehadnotknownthereweresomany
waystopursuefactsandfivehourslaterhehadfilledAlfred’snotebookwithinformation—enoughfor
himtomakeseveralgoodguessesabouttheLeagueofShadows.

“Onemorething,”BrucesaidasSandrapushedbackfromhercomputer.

“Yes?”

“CanyoufindanythingonRā’salGhūl?”

“Well,he’smentionedinoneofthereferences.Let’sseewhatelsetheremightbe.”Sandrareturned

tohercomputerandreferencebooksand,afteranotherhourhadpassed,gaveBrucemoreinformation.

AsBrucewasleavingSandra’soffice,hethankedherandaskediftherewasanythinghecoulddofor

her.

“Well,asyoumayhavenoticed,thingshavegottenabitshabbyaroundhere...Irealizethatyou’re

probablynotaswelloffasyourcousin...”

“I’llsendacheck.”Anditwillbealargeone.

Back at the manor, Bruce sank into his father’s favorite easy chair in the library and opened the

notebook.AsAlfredhadsaid,solidinformationabouttheLeagueofShadowswassparse.Theearliest
recordedmentionofitwasappendedtoapieceofparchmentdatingtothefourteenthcentury,copiedby
amonkinanIrishmonastery.Accordingtothisfragment,theLeaguehadalreadybeeninexistencefor
hundredsofyears.Thenextreferencewasinaletter,againjustafragment,sentfromParistoBerlinin
1794, at the height of the French Revolution. Then another, more cryptic message concerning the
LeaguesentfromaclothierinLondontoaManchesterseacaptain;therewasnomonthordayonit,but
theyearwas1866.

In the early twentieth century, an Oxford don had done a monograph on what he termed “secret

societies” that was mostly concerned with the Masons, the Ku Klux Klan, the Knights Templar, the
Order of St. Dumas, the Illuminati, and the League of Shadows. The learned academic dismissed the
latterthreeas“verylikelytheturbulentfabricationsofoverwroughtimaginations,”anddidnotbother
tolistthesourceshehadconsulted,anomissionSandraFlandersapparentlyconsideredgrievous.

“But,” she had concluded, “despite his pedagogical slovenliness and his turbulent and overwrought

prosestyle,Iguesshewasright.Theredoesn’tseemtohavebeenaLeagueofShadows.”

“Doyoualwayssaythingslike‘pedagogicalslovenliness’?”

“OnlywhenI’mtiredortryingtoimpresssomeone.I’llletyoudecidewhichapplieshere.”

AsforRā’s...therewasevenlessinformationabouthimthanabouthisLeague,andwhattherewas

Brucefoundhardtobelieve.Thenameitselfwaseasy:Sandrahadfoundameaningafewminutesafter
she’d accessed a lexicographical database. In Arabic it meant: “Head of the Demon.” And that was
abouttheextentofwhatBruceconsideredreliable:data.

Sothatleavesme...where?

The telephone rang, a loud jangling from an old-fashioned phone on Thomas Wayne’s desk that

seemedtoshakethewallsofthelibrary.

“I’vegotit,Alfred,”Bruceyelled,pickingupthereceiver.

ThecallerwasSandraFlanders.“I’vecomeacrosssomething,”shesaid.

“I’mallears.”

“There was an eccentric collector named Berthold Cavally who got very interested in the kinds of

thingsthatseemtointerestyou.Amassedquiteacollectionofartifactsofallkinds,buthehadaspecial
interest in lost civilizations, cults, secret societies, and the like. He died in a fire in 1952 and his
collectionburnedupwithhim.”

“Veryinteresting,Sandra,buthowdoesthis...”

“Wait. There’s a bit more. A nephew found one of Cavally’s notebooks in the ashes along with a

badlycharredfragmentofaparchment.Bothitemshadbeenpartiallyburned,butalotofitsurvived.
Apparently,itcontainsCavally’stranslationofaparchmentheacquiredinNorthAfricaanditmentions
thisRā’salGhūlcharacter.”

“Andhowmightanearnestyoungfellowgetalookatthisnotebook?”

“Well,ifhe’searnestandrich,hemightbuyit.Thenephewgotwipedoutinadot-comfiascoandis

sellingeverythinghecangethishandson.”

“Whereandwhen?”

“Ihopeyouhaveabagpacked.TheitemsareupforsaleatanauctiontomorrowatteninNewYork

City,ataplacecalledtheOlympusGallery.”

“I’llbethere—ifyou’llgivemeanaddress.”

Sandra recited an address on Madison Avenue and Sixty-first Street. Bruce thanked her again and

begantocallairlines.

AlfredvolunteeredtolearnsomethingabouttheOlympusGalleryandmadeafewcalls.Hereported

that it had once been a prestigious venue for acquiring antiquities, but lately had become “decidedly
second-rate.”

Brucethankedhimandmovedtowardthedoor.

“Anothermoment?”Alfredasked.HeheldupthebloodstainedclothesBrucehadbeenwearingatthe

airstripinKathmandu.

“Let’shangontothem.”

“Idoubtthey’lleverbecleanagain,MasterBruce.”

“They’resouvenirs.Souvenirsdon’thavetobespotless.”

“Souvenirsofwhat,ifImayask?”

“Mostpeoplegetadiplomawhentheycompletetheirschooling.Igotasooty,smoky,bloodyninja

suit.IthinkIgotthebetterdeal.”

“Idoubtthatthediplomamanufacturersareabitworried.”

Forthenextfifteenminutes,Brucebusiedhimselfmakingmoretelephonecalls.Theoneheconsidered
mostimportantwastotheWayneEnterprisesofficesinWayneTower.Achirpy-voicedreceptionisttold
himthatMr.Earlewasnotinandwasnotexpected,butwouldreturnfromhisvacationinafewdays
andperhapsthegentlemanwouldliketoleavehisnameandcallbackatthattime.Thegentlemansaid
hewouldprefernottoleavehisname,thankyou,butwouldbehappytocallagain.

BrucewanderedintothekitchenwhereAlfred,wearingawhiteapron,wasfeedingsomethingintoa

blender.WhenBruceexplainedwhathisproblemwas,Alfredtookacreditcardfromhiswallet.Bruce
thanked him and returned to the library and his phone calls. Using Alfred’s card number, he made a
round-tripplanereservationtoNewYorkCityforthefollowingdayandahotelreservationatthePlaza
inManhattan.

At six twenty-five the next morning, Bruce was walking through a terminal at La Guardia Airport in
Queens,NewYork.Herememberedlikingairportswhenheandhisfamilyhadpassedthroughthemon
vacations, en route to Paris, London, Hong Kong, Buenos Aires, the Caribbean Islands: a different
destinationeveryyear,andallofthemenchantingtoawide-eyedlittleboy.Butthisairport,now . . .
maybe his time with Rā’s al Ghūl had changed his tastes, or maybe the years he had lived since
childhooddid.Forwhateverreason,hefoundLaGuardiaatsix-thirtyinthemorningtobedepressing.
Hisfellowpassengersmostlywalkedwiththeirheadsdown,asthoughmovingintoaferociouswind,
andcarriedtheirtotebagsandsuitcasesandattachésasthoughtheyweretheburdensofthedamned.

It’searly.Maybethey’llcheeruplateron...

Brucewasfarfromchipperhimself.Hewasnotamorningperson—thatwasoneofthemanylessons

hehadlearnedatthemonastery.Itwasnotamatterofcharacter,assomeofhishighschoolteachers
had apparently believed, but of the body’s natural circadian rhythms. But he had also learned that
willpower,judiciouslyapplied,couldtrumplethargy.Ifhehadtobewideawakeandfullyfunctioning
inthemorning,hecouldbe.

Thewilliseverything...

Hewastravelinglighttoday,withnothingbuttheclothesonhisbackandawalletfullofcurrency.

Hestoodinlinefortwentyminutesbeforehecouldgetataxicab,anotherindicationthathehadnotyet
fully readjusted to being the wealthy scion of a wealthy family: a wealthy scion would have had a
limousinewaiting.HegavethedrivertheMadisonAvenueaddressandwatchedthescenerygoby.The
cabmergedwithanarmyofautomobiles,allinchingtowardthedistantManhattanskyline.

OncethecabhadactuallycrossedtheEastRiverintoManhattan,Bruceamusedhimselfbylookingat

NewYorkCityandcomparingittoGotham:thebuildingswere,onthewhole,taller,yetheretherewas
none of the oppressive cavernous quality that characterized downtown Gotham. Sunlight actually
reachedthesidewalkinManhattan.

NinetyminutesafterithadleftLaGuardia,thecabstoppedinfrontofabrownstonehousethatBruce

estimatedtobeatleast150yearsoldandwasobviouslybuiltbysomeonewhowaswealthy—afriend
ofhisgrandfather’s,maybe?Hepaidthefareandclimbedthestepstothefrontdoor.Atastefulbrass
plateabovethedoorbellwasetchedwiththewords

OLYMPUSGALLERY.

The door opened and a pretty young brunette in a pantsuit gave Bruce a catalog printed on vellum

andescortedhimtoalong,widechamberobviouslyconvertedfromseveralsmallerrooms.Thewoman
didnotrecognizehim,whichrelievedBruce,butdidnotsurprisehim.ThomasWaynehaddiscouraged
journalistsfrompublishingphotosofhisfamily;thelastpictureofBrucetogracethepublicprintswas
taken when he was barely fourteen, before he had even attained his full growth, much less been
hardenedbyhistravels.Henolongerlookedmuchlikethatcherubicadolescent.

Theroomwascrowdedwithrowsofchairsoccupiedbyadiversearrayofmenandwomen,allwell

dressed,mostofthemspeakinginmurmurstocompanions.Atthefarendwasaraisedplatformanda
lectern,flankedbypaintingsoneaselsandafewstatues.TheyoungbrunetteofferedBrucecoffee,tea,
chocolate, scones, and pastries. Bruce asked for coffee. A minute later she returned with some in a
daintychinacup.Shetoldhimthattheroomsaroundthemhadaninterestingvarietyofworksofartand
suggestedthathemightwanttoexaminethemaftertheauction.Brucethankedher,bothforthecoffee
andthesuggestion,andreceivedacarefullycraftedsmileinreturn.

A tall, cadaverous man with thick glasses and a few wisps of brown hair combed over his dome

movedbehindthelecternandwelcomedeveryone.

Hetappedamicrophoneandwincedwhenashriekoffeedbackfilledtheroom,andsaid,“Beforewe

begintoday’sproceedings,Ihavearegrettableannouncementtomake.Onpageelevenofyourcatalogs
—” There was a rustling as the gallery patrons turned pages. The tall man continued. “You see listed
there an item offered by James Cavally, a parchment accompanied by his uncle’s translation of its
contents.Unfortunately,wearenotabletoofferthistoyoutoday.”

“Whynot?”someoneasked.

“IregrettosaythatMr.Cavallyperishedinanairplanecrashlastnightandtheitemsdescribedinthe

catalogweredestroyedwithhim.We,ofcourse,conveyourdeepestsympathytohisfamilyandfriends
ontheirloss.Now,iftherearenofurtherquestions...webegintheauctionwithlotseven...”

Bruce was pretty sure he was not interested in the oil paintings of sunsets or the marble statues of

nymphsoranythingelsetheOlympusGallerywouldsellthatday.Hegotupandmadehiswaytothe
door,awarethatthebrunettewasfrowningathim,andleftthehouse.HehadareturntickettoGotham
inhispocketandheknewofnoreasonnottouseitassoonaspossible.Hewaveddownapassingcab
—

Andstopped,gesturingtothecabbietokeepgoing.Heturnedandremountedthesteps.Bythetime

hereachedthedoor,heknewwhyhehadnotgottenintothecab,whatwasnaggingathim.

Too much of a coincidence . . . the guy with the Rā’s al Ghūl information dying the night before it

wentonsale.Thatmightmeanthatthere’ssomethingintheoldmanuscriptactuallyworthknowing,and
thatmeansIshouldn’tgiveupsoeasily...

Withanexasperatedlookonherface,thebrunetteagainshowedhimtoaseat.Shedidnotofferhim

coffee,andhersmilethistimewasglacial.

Brucesatthroughanhour’stedium;hehadnotbeensoboredsincethatdayintheclassroomwhen

the professor had droned on and on about Jungian archetypes. Toward the end of the auction, Bruce
outbideveryoneelseandfoundhimselftheownerofamarblenymph.Hethoughtthatmaybetakingthe
monstrosityofftheauctioneer’shandswouldinclinehimtobefriendly.

Hehadnoideawhathewoulddowithit.Itwastoobigtobeapaperweight...

Whenthesalewasfinallyover,andtheartlovershadleft,stillmurmuringtoeachother,Brucepaid

forthenymph,approachedtheauctioneer,andintroducedhimself.

“I’m Wesley Carter,” the auctioneer said, shaking Bruce’s hand. “I must congratulate you on your

acquisition.Atrulyfinepiece.Whatdoyouplantodowithit,ifImayask?”

“It will occupy a place of honor,” Bruce said and added to himself: In a swamp somewhere. “I

wonderifImighthaveawordwithyouinprivate.”

Wesley Carter scrutinized Bruce and clearly approved of what he was seeing. He almost certainly

recognizedthatthecasualclothinghisvisitorworehadcostseveralthousanddollarsandtoldhimself
that a person who could afford such plumage was a person who could also afford expensive art. “If
you’llcomewithme,Mr....”

“Valley.GeneValley.”

BrucefollowedWesleyCarterupasteepflightofwindingstairstoasmallofficeonthesecondfloor,

probablyamaid’sroomoriginally.BrucesettledintoaleatherchairandtoldCarterwhathewanted.

WhenBrucehadfinished,Cartersaid,“LetmebecertainIunderstandyou.You’reaskingifthereis

anywaytolearnthecontentsofMr.Cavally’suncle’stranslation.”

AsCarterspoke,hiseyesshifteddownandtotheleft,brieflybutunmistakably.

“That’sitexactly.”

“Well . . . Mr. Cavally was an extremely cautious person. That’s why he insisted on bringing the

itemshimself.ButIcouldn’tofferthemtoourclientswithoutsomeknowledgeofthem—ourpatrons
aremostdiscerning.SoMr.Cavallyphotocopiedboththeoriginalparchmentandhisuncle’sworkonit
andforwardedthephotographstouslastweek.”

Again,thedartingglancedownandtotheleft.

“Ican’ttellyouhowhappyIamtohearthat,”Brucesaid.“I’dliketobuythosecopies.”

“I’mafraidthat’soutofthequestion.”

“I’dbewillingtoletyounameyourownprice.”

“Mr. Valley, I would love to be able to accommodate you, I truly would. But until I hear from Mr.

Cavally’slawyers...”

“Whenwillthatbe?”

“Well,thesemattersseldomproceedrapidly.Iwouldguesstwotothreemonths,attheearliest.”

“DidImentionyoucansetyourownprice?”

“Yesyoudid,”Cartersaid,histonenowfrosty.“AnddidImentionthatit’soutofthequestion?”

Bruceroseandextendedhishand.“Sorrytohavetakenupyourtime.”

“Notrouble,Mr.Valley.”

Theyshook,andBrucesaidhecouldfindhisownwayout.Hedescendedthewindingstaircaseand,

in the short hall leading to the exit, noticed another door. He glanced around. Nobody was near. He
openedthedoorandwaslookingatanothershortflightofstepsleadingtoacellar.

Oh-kayyy...

Heleftandwalkedaroundtheblock,mentallynotingeverythingaboutit,fromthekindsofawnings

the shops had to the placement of fire hydrants. When he was satisfied with his reconnaissance, he
strolleddowntownonMadisonAvenue,allowinghimselftobeatouristandmerelyenjoythesights.At
Sixtieth,hecutacrossacornerofCentralParktothePlazaHotel.Heregisteredandbeforegoingupto
hisroom,askedtheconciergeforsomestoresuggestions.

HegotthephotosuppliesheneededonForty-seventhStreetandtheclothingonSixthAvenue.He

brieflyvisitedaluggageshoponBroadway,andatalargedrugstorenearRockefellerCenter,hebought
a pair of rubber gloves and a penlight. He made his final purchase at a hardware store in Greenwich
Village.

HereturnedtotheOlympusGalleryatfourthatafternoon,nowdressedinablacksilkshirt,ablack

silk tie, dark blue trousers, and very expensive black sneakers, carrying an alligator attaché case with
goldfittings.

Henoddedpleasantlytothebrunette.“SawsomethingsthismorningImightliketohave.Goingto

haveanotherpeekatthem,ifthat’sallright.”

The brunette replied with an excessively wide smile and said certainly, he could take his time, but

theydidcloseatfive.

Brucebrowsedthroughseveralofthegalleries,tryingtolooklikeareallyavidartlover,butreally

checkingthesecurityarrangements.Therewasonevideocamerainthelobbyandnothingelsethathe
could see. He waited until he was momentarily alone, then dashed to the cellar door and scrambled
downthesteps.

The cellar was almost totally dark, but light from a place where paint had chipped from a window

that had been painted over was enough for him to see by. He was in a low-ceilinged basement filled
with crates and what must have been paintings wrapped in brown paper. At the rear, behind all the
clutter, he could see an old-fashioned coal bin, which was also full of crates. He went into it and
crouchedinadarkcornerandwaited.

Waitingwasnoproblem.ItwassomethingDucardhadinsistedhelearnandDucardhadtaughthim

well.

Heheardfootstepsonthefloorabovehim,andmuffledvoicescallinggood-byes.Thensilence.

Hewaited,awareofallthenoisesintheoldhouseandthedarknessaroundhim,alertbutstill.

When the faintly luminous dial on his Rolex said 8:25, he put on the rubber gloves, crept from his

hidingplace,ascendedthesteps,andslowly,carefullyopenedthedoor,justacrack.

Theremustbeguards.I’drathernotrunintothem...

Helistened:thecreakingsandgroaningsofanyoldhouse,andsomewhere,thewhineofanelectric

engine.Hecreptintothecarpetedhall.Theonlylightwasfromared

EXIT

sign.Carefultostayoutof

the scanning area of the single video camera, which was really no problem, he went up the winding
staircaseuntilhereachedtheupperlandingandheardsomeonecoughing.Aflashlightbeamstruckthe
walljustaheadofhim;someonewasinanadjoininghall,cominghisway.Whoeveritwaswouldbe
facinghimintwoorthreeseconds.

Withneitherhesitationnorconsciousthought,heswungovertherailingandhungfromthefloorof

the landing, his legs dangling down into a gallery below, the handle of the attaché in his teeth. A
uniformedman,withabellythatdroopedoverabeltfestoonedwithasmallradioandacanofMace,
lumbered past, sweeping a flashlight beam ahead of him. His right shoe sole came within an inch of
Bruce’sfingers.

Bythetimethemanhadreachedthetopofthestairs,Brucehadvaultedovertherailing.Hemoved

ashehadbeentaughttomove,swiftlyandinabsolutesilence,tothedoorofWesleyCarter’soffice.He
triedtheknobandfounditunlocked.Wesleywasatrustingsoul,blesshim.Bruceenteredandcrossed
tothedesk.HeopenedhisattachéandremovedthesmallcrowbarhehadpurchasedintheGreenwich
Village hardware store. Carter had twice glanced at the top left-hand drawer of his desk while
discussing the photocopies, so that was where Bruce would start his search. He was prepared to hate
himselfforusingacrowbaronsuchafinepieceoffurniture,buthedidnothaveto;likethedoor,the
drawerwasopen.Carterwasaverytrustingsoul.Orhedidnotthinkthecontentsofthedrawerwere
worthstealing,andmaybehewasright.

Bruceremovedasmallcamerafromhisattachéandlaythephotocopiesflatonthedesktop.Forthe

nexttenminutes,hephotographedthephotocopies,hopingthatthetinyflashfromhiscamerawouldbe
visibleneitherunderthedoornortoanyoneoutsidetheroom’ssinglewindow.

Hereplacedtheoriginalcopiesinthedrawer,steppedtothedoor,andpressedhisearagainstit:no

lumberingfootsteps.

Nowtofigureoutanexitstrategy...

Thesidewalkinfrontofthehousewouldstillbebusyatthistimeofnight;likeGotham,NewYork

was a city that never slept, and he did not want to chance being seen leaving and be arrested for
burglary. The rear faced the backyards of private homes and a few tony businesses, some of which
wouldcertainlyhavedogsandsecuritycameras.

Thatlefttheroof.

Heglideddownthehallwaytoawindowandtookthepenlightfromhispantspocket.Hequicklyran

the light beam over the edges of the window: no tape. So no security alarm. He lifted the window,
slowly, to make as little noise as possible, and stood on the sill, the back of his body facing the yard
below,thehandleoftheattachéagaingrippedinhisteeth.

Okay,nowthehardpart...

Hebenthiskneesandjumpedstraightup.Hisglovedfingerscurledaroundtheedgeoftheroofand

heflexedhisarmsandliftedhimselfuntilhecouldrolloverontotherooftop.

Fromhereon,itwouldbeeasy.Duringhisearlierreconnaissance,Brucehadnotedthelocationofa

talltree,threedoorssouthofthegallery.So:overtheroofs,ashortjumptothetree,abriefwaituntilno
onewasnear,thendowntothesidewalkandbacktothehotel.Pieceofcake.

Twelvehourslater,BrucewasinthesunnykitchenofWayneManorfinishinghisbreakfast.

“Itrustyourmealwassatisfactory,”Alfredsaidfromthesink,wherehewasrinsingoutsomecups.

“Absolutely,” Bruce said. “What could be better than the blood sausage and eggs Benedict you’ve

beengivingme?”

AlfredfinishedwiththecupsandsatacrossthetablefromBruce.“Youseempensivethismorning,

MasterBruce.Anythingyou’dliketoshare?”

“I’mrehashingyesterday.Tryingtomakesenseofit,Iguess.”

“Whataboutitpuzzlesyou?”

“Foronething,Ilikedit.Almostallofit.DanglinglikeaChristmastreeornament,runningacross

thoserooftops...itfeltright,somehow.”

“Thethrillofdanger,perhaps?”

“Iknowthatthrill,andthiswasn’tit.Thiswas...more.LikeIwasfinallydoingsomethingIshould

bedoing.”

“Really?Areyouawarethatthecareeropportunitiesforcatburglarsareseverelylimited?Andthe

benefitsaredisgraceful.Nohealthinsurance,noparkingspace...”

“Okay,Alfred,pointtaken.MayIchangethesubject?”

“Certainly,sir.”

“I’vegotsomepicturestobedevelopedandI’drathernottrustthedrugstore.Anyideas?”

“MyfriendinGothamhasphotographicequipment.”

“Isyourfrienddiscreet?”

“Completely.”

Brucewentintothelibraryandreturnedwiththealligatorattachécase.

“They’reinhere.Yourfriendcankeeptheattachécase.”

“I’msureshe’llputittogooduse.Bytheway...whatusewasittoyou?”

“Itcarriedmytoolsanditwasapainin...theteeth.I’mnotsureashoulderbagwouldhavebeen

muchbetterwhenIwasrooftophopping.Somethinglikeatoolbelt...Icouldhaveusednight-vision
lenses,too,andaninfraredflashlightmighthavebeenuseful.”

“Thenexttimeyoucommitafelony,wewillequipyouproperly.”

“Icertainlyhopeso.”

Ten minutes later, Alfred drove his Bentley away and Bruce was left to wonder what to do with

himself.Well,whatdopeopledowhentheydon’thavetorunacrossglaciers,repulsearmedninjas,or
commitburglary?

Watchtelevision,ofcourse.

Exceptforoccasionalmomentsaboardship,whenthevesselhehappenedtobeonwasinpositionto

receivecommercialbroadcasts,BrucehadnotwatchedTVinoversevenyears.Hewentintotheden
andswitchedonalargeflatscreenmonitor.

He watched. Had there always been this many commercials? He grew bored until he made the

watchinganexerciseinpatientawareness.Hewasstillandhewaitedandwasawareofthesightand
soundofthetelevisionset,whichwastunedtoanall-newschannel.

Onthescreen:severalfiretrucksoutsideaburningbrownstone.

Fromthespeaker:...officialssaythefirewasapparentlystartedwhenaboilerinthebasementof

the150-year-oldbuildingexploded.Anightwatchman,HenryBilleret,isbelievedtohavediedinthe
conflagration,althoughhisbodyhasnotyetbeenrecovered.Mr.BilleretwasaretiredNewYorkCity
policeofficer...

The brownstone housed—had housed—the Olympus Gallery. So the owner of the Rā’s al Ghūl

documentsandthedocumentsthemselvesweredestroyedinaplanecrashandtwodayslatertheplace
forwhichtheywereboundburnstotheground.Coulditpossiblybeacoincidence?

Alfredreturnedlateintheafternoonbearingalargeboundalbum.Inthecenterofeachheavybrown

page was a photograph of writing, about half of which was in English, the other half in a calligraphy
Brucedidnotrecognize.

“Doweoweyourfriendanything?”BruceaskedAlfred.

“Shehasherfavoritecharities.Perhapsadonation?”

“Youdecidetheamount,I’llsignthecheck.AfterI’mdeclaredlegallyalive,thatis.”

Brucetookthealbumintothelibraryandsettledintotheleathereasychair.Hebeganreading,first

thetranslator’snotesandthentheEnglishtranslationofthemysteriouscalligraphy.Thestoryseemed
likeafairytale,real“onceuponatime”stuff.

...aman-childwasbornduringaterriblestorm.Itwasatimeofmadness.Itwasatimeofthe
minglingofthingsthatshouldremainforeverapart.Foratnoonthelightdiedanddarkness
claimedtheoasisandtheskyaboveroiledandsplitandjaggedbladesoflightningslashedthe
earthbelow,andtheverydesertitselfliftedandrodethescreamingwindtostrikeanythinginits
path.Thusdayassumedtheguiseofnight.Waterandsandallied.

Thenfromthewhirlinginsanityofaworldintormentcameaman.Ahermitwashewhoforthe

pastfortyyearshadlivedaloneinaplacewithoutmercy.Somesaidhewasaprophet.Somesaid
hewasademon.Allagreedthathehadlongagoabandonedthatwhichmakesacreaturehuman.

Heenteredthebirthingroomandsuddenlythestormquieted.Andinthestillnesscouldbeheard

thewailofanewborninfant.Thegazeofthenewmotherandhertwosistersfastenedonhimin
fascinationandtheytrembledashespokeinavoicethatraspedandrumbled:Givehimtome.

Themanfromthestormliftedthenewbornandhespoke:Hiswillbealifelitbylightning.His

yearswillbemanystretchingbeyondthefarthestdreamsofageanditishisdestinytobeeither
mankind’ssaviorortodestroyallthatlivesupontheearth.

Themanfromthestormreturnedtheinfanttohismotherandspoke:Mytaskisfinished.

Andasthemotherlookeduponhersononlyminutesfromthewombshewasafraid.

Brucelookedupfromthemanuscript.Theskyoutsidehaddarkenedandabatflutteredpastthelibrary
window.Brucesalutedit,switchedonalamp,andstartedtoreadagain.

Therewasagapinthestory.Obviously,manypages,perhapsahundredormore,hadbeenlost.As

thenarrativeresumed,theinfanthadgrowntomanhood,hadmarried,hadmasteredsuchhealingartsas
existed, and had somehow become a favorite of the local ruler, known as the Salimbok, and his son,
Runce. Bruce skimmed several pages that seemed to concern things like trade routes and the size of
dwellings,untilhecametoanaccountofthePhysician’sfalling-outwiththebigwigs,theSalimbokand
Runce.

Itbeganwitharace.ThePhysicianandRunceweretearingthroughthetown,mountedonacouple

ofstallions,whenanoldwomangotintheirway.Thestoryresumedinthemiddleofasentence.

ancientwassheandblindandhersoulwaslockedwithinitselfnolongertouchingtheworld
aroundher.Sheheardbutdidnotheedthepoundingofhoovesastheyapproachedher.Shefelland
wastrampledintothedust.

ThecontestantscrossedthefinishlineandwerejoyouslygreetedbytheSalimbokwhodeclared

theracetrulyexcellent.

TheSalimbokspoke:ThePhysicianisasuperbhorseman.Heridesaswellasheheals.Butmy

sonrodeasswiftlyasthewind.Ideclaremysonandheirthevictor.

The Physician’s wife called Sora approached him. He spoke to her out of wounded pride: It

seemsthatonceagainyourhusbandbowstohisbetter.

Shespoke:ItisthewilloftheSalimbokthatitbeso.ButIamstillproudofmyhusband.Later

whenwearealoneIwilldemonstratetheextentofmypride.

Runce approached them. He spoke: What of me, fair Sora. Do not I merit any of your

demonstration?

RunceembracedSorawhileherhusbandstoodbyinhelplessrage.

TheSalimbokapproachedandspoketohisson:Thevictor’sfeastawaitsyou.Suchfoodaswill

delightyourtongueandwomentoo.Lovelygirlsinthefirstblushofmaturity.

Runcespoke:TherearenonesolovelyasthewifeofthePhysician.

TheSalimbokspoketothePhysician:Heisyoungandimpetuous.Youmustforgivehim.

ThePhysicianquelledtherageandpridewithinhimandspoke:Yes,Excellency.

The Physician and his wife retired to their quarters and conversed regarding the son of the

Salimbok.ThePhysicianspoke:Heisyoung.Yearsandresponsibilitieswillteachhimdecorum.

SoradoubtedthisandremindedherhusbandthatRuncewasnoyoungerthanhe.ThePhysician

repliedthathisstudieshadagedhimbeyondhisyears.

Whatstudieswerethose?Brucewondered.And where did he study? Who were his teachers? Most of
all,what,exactly,didhelearn?

“Isthisagoodtimeforaninterruption?”Alfredaskedfromthedoorway.Hewascarryingatraywith

ateapotandtwocups.“Ithoughtyoumightbereadyforsomerefreshment.”

“Whatarewehaving?EarlGrey?”

“I’vebrewedsomeofthegreenteayouseemtofavorsinceyoursojournabroad.Imustadmitthat

it’sgrowingonme.”

“Thatwasnot,Ihope,apun.”

“Perishforbid.”Alfredfilledthecups,gaveonetoBruce,andsatwithhisowncupinanadjoining

chair.“Isittooearlytoaskhowthereadingprogresses?”

Bruce sipped his tea and said, “It progresses fine, I guess. I could do with a few more punctuation

marks—the guy seems allergic to commas and quotation marks—and a little less quasi-poetic diction
would be okay, and a couple of hard facts now and then would be nice. But on the whole, no
complaints.”

“Haveweadded‘literarycritic’toourportfolio?”

“Hardly.ButIdoknowwhatIlike.”

“Weshallmakeaneducatedmanofyouyet,MasterBruce.”

“Don’tholdyourbreath.”

Alfredstood.“Ishallleaveyoutoit.Dinnerattheusualtime?”

“Sure.Whatever’sgoodforyou.”

Bruce drained his cup and picked up the manuscript. He reentered the story at the point where the

Physicianwenttoseetheoldwomanwhohadbeentrampled.

BrandishingaknifethesonspoketothePhysician:Youarenotwelcomehere.Ishallshowyou
justhowunwelcome.

ThePhysicianspoke:IunderstandyourangerandIdonotblameyouforit.Butbeforeyouslice

meopenallowmeamomentwithyourmother.

The wish of the Physician was granted and he tended to the old woman whose sightless eyes

were closed. Her son inquired as to her condition and the Physician spoke: She is old and her
injuriesaregrievous.ThereislittleIcando.TheGreatEnemywillsoonclaimher.

ThesonwishedtoknowtheidentityofthisGreatEnemythathemightbeslainbeforethedeath

ofthemother.

The Physician spoke at length: The greatest and final enemy of mankind. The merciless felon

who is always lurking nearby ready to snatch from us all we hold dear. The mocker of our
aspirationsanddreamsandhopes.Ourcruelmaster.Death.HowIhatedeath.

The Physician gave a pouch full of herbs to the son of the old woman. He explained that the

herbs would not save the old woman but would ease her passing. The son was touched by the
kindnessofthePhysicianandcasthisbladetotheground.

A messenger from the Salimbok entered the dwelling and reported that Runce the son of the

rulerhadfallengravelyillandwasinneedofthePhysician.

ThePhysicianandthemessengerhurriedtotheroyaldwelling.ThePhysicianfoundRunceto

begrievouslyill.Hisskinwaspaleandhisbrowburned.

TheSalimbokinquiredastothecauseoftheillness.ForhadnotRuncebeenvictoriousinarace

merehoursearlier?ThePhysicianconfessedthathehadnocertainknowledgebuthesupposedthat
the illness came from merchants who had recently visited the area and were themselves ill. The
Salimbokwantedtoknowhowthiscouldbe.ThePhysicianrepliedthatcertainofhisresearches

indicatedthatdiseasecouldmovefromonepersontoanotherandpromisedtoexhausthimselfin
seekingtocureRunce.

ThePhysicianwassorelytroubled.Hemountedtheanimalhehadriddenintheraceandrode

intothedesert.Inthedistancesilveredbymoonlightacloudofdustandsandweresuresignsof
thenomadswhopreyedupontravelers.Buteithertheyhadnotseenhimortheywereindifferentto
plunderthisnight.

He dismounted at the place where he had been born and immediately he felt the energy that

surges from the very earth itself. Here he could think and dream those dreams that are often the
better of mere thought. The wind murmured and then howled and then shrieked and a thousand
shapesbegantoshimmerontheboundaryofsleep.Monsterswelledupfromunimaginableabysses
tosurroundthePhysicianandfillhimwithdread.Buthedidnotshrinkfromthemashehadinthe
past.Hefacedthemandcalledthembytheirnamesandthenameshecalledthemwerethenames
ofDeath.Itwasinfacingthemthathecametoseehowhemightdefeatthem

Thenarrativebrokeoff.Moremissingpages.Bruceallowedhimselfaflickerofannoyance.JustwhenI
wasgettingtothegoodpart...

Heputdownthemanuscriptandcarriedhisemptycupintothekitchen.Somethingwasbubblingon

thestoveandsomethingelsewasintheoven,andbothsmelledrichandhighlycaloric.Hecouldhear
thesoundofaLouisArmstrongsolofromanotherpartofthehouseandknewthatAlfredwaslistening
to his favorite music while waiting for whatever he was cooking and baking to be done. Ever since
Bruce’s return from abroad, Alfred had been outdoing himself as a chef. Every night there was a
differentmealandeveryonewassumptuous.

Brucedidnotknowhowtotellhisfriendthateveryonewasalsomakinghimqueasy.

Hebrewedhimselfanotherservingofgreenteaandwentbacktothelibraryandhisreading.

The narrative resumed with the Physician riding home and passing a corpse lying on the road. He

reachedthegateofthecityandwasgreetedbyaguardwhotoldhimthatduringthenightthenomads
hadattacked.Themaraudershadbeenrepulsed,butnotwithoutcost.Manymenhadbeenwounded.

Thegatekeeperspoke:Allthatisofnoconsequence.ThesonoftheSalimbokisdyingandyou
mustattendhimwithoutdelay.

ThePhysicianwenttotheroyaldwellingimmediatelyandfoundthatRuncewasindeedcloseto

death.TheSalimbokimploredthePhysiciantosavehissonandpromisedthePhysiciangoldand
slaves and even his kingdom itself. But the Physician wanted none of these things and told the
rulerthatRuncewasalreadybeyondthereachofthehealingarts.

ThePhysicianspoke:Itmaybethatlastnightaknowledgebeyondmedicinecametomeinthe

guiseofadream.Iwillneedlaborerstodigapitandatentandothersupplies.

ThekingdomwasscouredtoprovidewhatthePhysicianneededandbeforethesunhadsetall

wasinreadiness.ThewifeofthePhysicianconfessedthatshewastroubledformuchofwhather
husbandhadrequestedwaspoisonousanddeadlytothehumanbody.

ThePhysicianspoke:Ifmytheoryiscorrectthepoisonscanbecurativeprovidedtheyareused

underexactlytherightconditions.InthisplacewherewestandIsensegreatenergy.Perhapsitis
theenergyoftheearthitself.ThiscombinedwiththeotheragentswilleithercureyoungRunceor

hastenhisinevitabledemise.

The Salimbok came forth and implored the Physician to accompany him to the shrine of Bisu

whowastheforemostdeityofthepeople.ThePhysicianprotestedthathewasamanofscience
andhadnobeliefingodsandwouldnotworshipthem

Here, again, there was a gap in the story. But someone, almost certainly the younger Cavally, had
insertedintothefolioasheetofpaperbearingsomenotestypedonamachinethathadneededanew
ribbon.

Bisu...desertgod.Notworshipedintheusualways.Moredemonthangod?Fittingforaharsh
place?Livingconditionsshapelocalideaofgod-hood?(Cfvolkergedanken.)

Humansacrifice?Wouldanswersomequestions.

Maybeitwouldanswersomeofhisquestions,Brucethought.Doesn’tdoathingformine,though.And
what’s this word in parentheses . . . “volkergedanken”? German word, looks like. Mean anything
important?Probablynot,butbetterfindout.

HewouldcallSandraFlandersinthemorning—herortheuniversity’sGermandepartment.(Surely,

ithadaGermandepartment.)

A bit wearily, Bruce resumed reading. Whatever the Physician did about worshiping, or not

worshiping,Bisuhadhappenedinthemissingpages.Thenarrativebeganinmidsentence:

confesstoadislikeofRunceasstrongasyours,mywife.Butheisamanandnonewhocanbe
calledsoareblameless.Andhisfatherhasbeengeneroustous.

In the tent the Physician made ready his preparations and commanded that Runce be lowered

intothepitthatseethedandboiledandmadeahorriblestench.Runcenolongergavebreathandall
whowerepresentthoughtthePhysicianhadfailed.ButwithaterribleroarRunceroseupfromthe
pitandhiseyeswerefilledwithmadnessandhisgazewascastuponthefairwifeofthePhysician.
Andhegraspedher.ThePhysiciantriedtointervenebutRuncewasasstrongastenmenandflung
thePhysicianaside.AndsuchwashisembraceofSorathathernecksnappedandshefelllifeless.

The madness left the eyes of Runce and he called out to his father. Others who had heard the

tumultenteredthetentandsawthelifelessformofSoraandtheSalimbokliedtosavehissonfrom
disgraceandblamedthedeathofSoraonthePhysician.

Bruce lowered the manuscript. This is getting positively biblical . . . He had a sudden need to do
something physical; he could finish his research later. He put the manuscript in a drawer, went to his
room,andchangedintoasweatsuit.

Inthegardenbehindthehouse,hebeganaseriesofdancelikemartialartsmovesdesignedbothto

hone his combat skills and improve his overall conditioning. Within minutes, he was sweating and
pantingandfeelingfine.Themoonwasdirectlyoverheadandquitebright;Brucehadallthelighthe
needed.

A car passed the gate, almost a quarter of a mile away, going too fast for the narrow road. Bruce

glancedatitsheadlightsandstoppedinmidmotion.

IfIcanseethecar,maybethecar’soccupantscanseeme.DoIwanttheworldtoknowthatBruce

WayneisaliveandawannabeBruceLee?

Okay,nomartialarts,notwherehecouldbeseen.Buthestillfelttheneedtoexerthimself.So—he

couldrun.Runningissomethinganyonemightdoandifanyonecamecloseenoughtoseehim,Bruce
wouldstop,andresthispalmsonhisknees,andpant,andpretendtobeexhausted.

Heran.Outthegateandleftontheroadandallthewaytothefreewayramp,twoandahalfmiles

south, and back to the house. It felt wonderful to be stretching his legs, muscles sliding and locking,
moving smoothly and gracefully under the moon and stars of a glorious early summer night. After a
while, the rhythmic slap of his shoe soles on the asphalt became pleasantly hypnotic but he resisted
lettinghisattentionrelax.Alessonlearnedatthemonastery:Alwaysbealert—always.Butthatdidnot
precludehisenjoyinghimself.

Hemetnoone.

Ashewasgoingupthestairstoshower,Alfredcalledfromthekitchenthatdinnerwasalmostready.

Fiveminuteslater,hairstillwet,dressedinasportshirtandchinos,BrucejoinedAlfredatthebig

tableinthediningroom.

Alfred was apologetic. “I’m afraid the pheasant might be a trifle overdone and I couldn’t get the

reallygoodtruffles...”

“It’llallbewonderful,”Bruceassuredhimandbeganputtingfoodinhismouth.“Delicious.”

“I sense a certain insincerity in the compliment,” Alfred said. “You sound rather like a little boy

who’sfoundsocksundertheChristmastreeinsteadoftoys.I’vedetectedalackofenthusiasmformy
otherculinaryproductions,aswell.”

Bruce dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Alfred, the food really is good, and I appreciate the effort

youputintoit.ButIguessmytastesgotsimplifiedwhileIwasabroad.Abowlofriceandaservingof
vegetablestastesasgoodtomeasfiletmignonnow,andIdon’tleavethetablefeelingweigheddown
aftereatingthem.”

“SoI’mtoserveonlythesimplestfare?”

“Sometimes,whenyou’reinthemood,sure—knockyourselfout.Buteverymealdoesn’thavetobe

afeast.”Brucepushedbackfromthetable.“Idon’tmeantooffendyou...”

“MasterBruce,Icannottellyouhowlittleyou’veoffendedme.Onthecontrary...Ihaven’tfeltso

relieved in years. I’ve been spending half my time in the kitchen, and the other half at the market.
Tomorrownight,restassured,youwillbegiventhebestbowlofriceinthecounty.Andnotamorsel
more.”

“Ilookforwardtoit.”

Brucewentintothelibraryandpickedupthemanuscript.HeheardAlfredleavebythesidedoorand,

aminutelater,hisBentleydrivingdowntothegate.ThiswasAlfred’snightout.FromhintsAlfredhad
dropped, probably intentionally, Bruce guessed that Alfred spent these weekly trips to the city in the
company of a woman, a doctor who operated a clinic in one of Gotham’s less savory neighborhoods.
Bruce did not know the exact nature of the relationship, nor did he want to. Alfred had earned his
privacy,athousandtimesover.

Brucesettleddeepintohisfather’schairandfinishedhisself-assignedreading.

WherewasI...?

...TheSalimbokliedtosavehissonfromdisgraceandblamedthedeathofSoraonthe
Physician.

ThePhysicianwasconfineduntiltheSalimbokpronouncedsentenceuponhim.

Acting on advice from Runce the Salimbok commanded that the Physician be confined in a

metalcagewiththebodyofhisdeadwifeandthecagebeloweredintoapitinthedesertsand.For
threenightsthePhysiciansufferedinsilence.Onthefourthnightthemanwhosemotherhadfallen
beneaththehoovesofthehorsesslewtheguardatthesiteofthegraveofthePhysiciananddrew
forth the cage that imprisoned him. He gave the Physician cool water to drink and bathed the
woundsthePhysicianhadsufferedandtogethertheyescapedintothedesert

Another bunch of pages missing. The last fragment was only a couple of dozen words long. Like the
previousone,itbeganinmidsentence:

whohadoncebeenknownasthePhysicianrosehowlingfromthepitwitheyesfilledwith
madnessandwhenthemadnesshadsubsidedRā’sal

That’swhereitended,againinmidsentence.

Bruce dropped the book onto the rug beside the chair and leaned back. So is Rā’s the Physician?

Apparently. And I’m supposed to believe that his dunking-in-noxious-chemicals trick works and gives
himincrediblelongevity...thathe’sahealthyfourhundredyearsplus.Allveryhardtoswallow.

Brucegotup,stretched,andwalkedoutintothemoonlitnight.Okay,let’sstickwithwhatIknow.I

knowtheLeagueexists,unlessIimaginedeverythingthathappenedatthemonastery,andIdidn’t.And
itseemstosurfaceattimesofsocialupheaval.Whatelse?Whatexactlydoesitdo?AndwhatdidRā’s
wantwithme?Interestingquestions.IwishIhadsomeinterestinganswers.ButatleastI’mwayahead
ofwhereIwasacoupleofdaysago,andforthatIowethenicelibrarian.

Hegotup,wenttohisfather’shugeoldoakdesk,andgotacheckbookfromthetopdrawer.Hewrote

a check to Gotham University, filled in a number, hesitated, and added another zero. Then he began
addressinganenvelope,thoughhewouldnotbeabletoactuallysendthecheckuntilhewasdeclared
among the living. He really should do something about that. He had done enough reconnaissance to
know there was nothing unexpected waiting for him in Gotham and he was sure he had all the
informationabouthisformermentorthatheneeded.SothetimehadcometoruinWilliamEarle’sday.

Brucedidnotfeelitnecessarytorevisittheuniversitythenextday,norwasit.Hetelephonedthe
school’sgeneralnumberandwaspatchedthroughtotheGermandepartment,wherehespoketoa
ProfessorLiamO’Shaugnessy.

“You’resurprisedthatsomebodywithmynameteachesGerman,amIright?”O’Shaugnessyaskedin

anaccentthatBruceguessedwasamixtureofDublinandBrooklyn.

“Mildly,Dr.O’Shaugnessy.”

“Only‘mildly’?Knocksmostpeopleoutoftheirsocks.WhatcanIdoforyou?Gotaquestion?”

Bruceaskedforthemeaningoftheword“volkergedanken,”thewordintheyoungerCavally’snotes,

andstartedtospellit.

“Hold the spelling bee. Don’t need it. Word’s kinda hard to wrap your head around but it means

something like ‘local ideas.’ I think it was popularized by a guy named Adolph Bastien. He was a
mythologyguy.Theideais,basicmythsarechangedbylocalconditions.Anythingelse?”

Bruce said there was not and thanked the professor. The conversation had not yielded much useful

information. Okay, Rā’s’s people created a mean deity because their living conditions were mean.
Interesting, maybe, but irrelevant. Bruce still did not know much about the man who had been his
mentorandnow,perhaps,hadbeenhisenemy.

Butmaybeheknewenough.

SergeantJamesGordonsquirmedinthefrontseatoftheunmarkedpolicecar,andlookedoutthedriver-
sidewindowathispartner,Flass,standinginfrontofaliquorstoreandshakinghandswithitsowner.It
waslateafternoonandtheyshouldhavebeenbackatthestationhouse,butFlasshadthisstoptomake.

Flasscrossedthestreet,gotintothedriver’sseat,andheldupawadofcurrency.

“Don’ts’poseyouwantataste?”heaskedGordon.

GordonstaredatFlass.

Flass grinned and began counting the money. “I keep offering ’cause who knows, maybe one day

you’llgetwise.”

“Nothingwiseinwhatyoudo,Flass.”

“Well,Jimbo,youdon’ttakeyourtaste,makesusguysnervousyoumightdecidetorollover.”

Gordonlethisirritationcreepintohisvoice.“I’mnotarat,Flass.IfIwere,I’dstillbeinChicago.

Besides,inatownthisbent,who’stheretoratto?”

Flasslaughed,startedthecar,andscreecheddownthestreet.Fifteenminuteslaterhebrakedinfront

of the station house. Gordon got out of the car and, his body sagging with weariness, watched Flass
driveaway.

Standinginthedoorwayofatailorshopthatwasclosedforthenight,BruceWaynewatchedGordon

asGordonhadwatchedFlass.

JimGordonwentupaflightofstepstothedetectivedivisiononthesecondflooroftheprecincthouse,
ignoringthescreamingfromtheraggedwomanwhohadjustbeenledtothefrontdeskandthe
everpresentstinkofsmokeandstalehumanity.Hehadalittlepaperworktogetdonebeforeheclimbed
intohisten-year-oldsedananddrovehome.Barbarawouldhaveadecentmealwaiting,evenifitwasa
mealthatcamefromcans,andshe’daskhimhowhisdaywentandhe’dsayfine.Likealways.Ifit
wasn’ttoolate,Jimwouldreadhisdaughterastoryandtuckherin.MaybethenheandBarbarawould
watchsomeTV.

Ormaybethey’dargue.Thesameoldargument.BarbarawouldtellJimthattherewasnofuturein

theGothamPDandnofutureforhiminanypolicework,notsinceChicago,andJimwouldprobably
losehistemper.WhathadhappenedinChicagohadn’tbeenhisfault,evenifhetooktheheatforit,and
Barbaraknewthatandwhythehelldidshekeepbringingitup?

Butlater,lyinginbed,he’dadmittohimselfthathiswifewasright.HewasonlyinGothambecause,

after Chicago, the Gotham force was the only one that would hire him. He’d had to return to his
hometownwithhistailbetweenhislegs.But,dammit,hewasacop.That’sallhehadeverbeen.Even
intheMarines,he’dbeenassignedtoashorepatrolunit.

Hepulledastandardformfromthestackonthecornerofthedeskandbeganwritingareportthatno

onewouldeverread—hell,thatprobablywouldn’tevengetfiled.

CHAPTERNINE

achelDawessatinthecourtroomforforty-fiveminutes,listeningtoDr.JonathanCrane’stestimony.

Muchofwhatthethin,bespectacledpsychiatristsaidwasthemedicalequivalentofboilerplate,filling
up air and time without communicating much, but two sentences caught Rachel’s attention. As she
listenedshetwistedahandkerchiefinherlapandbitherlip.

“Inmyopinion,”Cranetoldthecourt,“Mr,Zsaszisasmuchadangertohimselfasothers.”

The doctor looked at Victor Zsasz, a bulky man with a completely bald head wearing an orange

jumpsuitwhosatbesidehislawyeratalongtable.

“Prisonisprobablynotthebestenvironmentforhisrehabilitation,”Craneconcluded.“Buthewould

beawelcomeadditiontoourgroupatArkham.”

When the hearing was over, Rachel ran down the long, curving marble steps and caught up with

Craneinthelobby.

“Dr.Crane!”shecalledbreathlessly.

Cranestoppedbythedoortotheporticoandsaid,“Yes,MissDawes?”

“DoyouseriouslythinkthatVictorZsaszshouldn’tbeinjail?”

“Iwouldhardlyhavetestifiedtothatotherwise,wouldI,MissDawes?”

Together,theywentthroughthedoorandbeganwalkingintheporticotowardanadjoiningbuilding.

Rachelsaid,“ThisisthethirdofCarmineFalcone’sthugsthatyou’veseenfittohavedeclaredinsane

andmovedintoyourasylum.”

“Youshouldn’treallybesurprised,”Craneanswered.“Theworkofferedbyorganizedcrimehasan..

.attractionfortheinsane.”

“Andthecorrupt.”

Crane stopped in midstep, turned to Rachel, and spoke over her shoulder: “Mr. Finch, I think you

shouldcheckwithMissDaweshere.Justwhatimplicationshasyourofficeauthorizedhertomake?If
any.”

Crane stalked away as Rachel watched her boss approach. Carl Finch took Rachel’s arm and said,

“Whatareyoudoing,Rachel?”

“Whatareyoudoing,Carl?”

“Lookingoutforyou.”

FinchguidedRacheltoanalcovebeforespeakingagain.“Rachel,Falcone’sgothalfthecitybought

andpaidfor...dropit.”

“Flowcanyousaythat?”

“BecausemuchasIcareaboutgettingFalcone...Icaremoreaboutyou.”

“That’ssweet,Carl.Butwe’vebeenthroughallthis.”

RachelstoodonhertoesandgaveFinchasisterlykissonthecheek.

Across the street, sitting on a bus stop bench, a man wearing a baseball cap and sweat clothes that

wereoldandfrayed,watchedRachelkissFinchandhurrytowardtheparkinglot.ThenBrucewalked
downtheblockandbehindagreeting-cardstore,whereAlfredwaitedinthecar.

Severalhourslater,shaved,showered,anddressedinjeansandaGothamU.sweatshirt,Brucesaton

the floor of his library shuffling through papers and photographs. He paused at a picture of Rachel
leavingthecourt,takenwithatelephotolens.Heheardachitteringsoundanddroppedthephoto,stood,
andstrodeintothemansion’smainhall.Hesquintedandstaredupward,tryingtoseeclearlyashadowy
thingthatflutteredjustoutsidethewindow.

Alfred, holding a silver tea service, spoke from the doorway to the kitchen: “Another blessed bat

again,sir.Theynestsomewhereonthegrounds.”

“Yes,theydo.”

Tenminuteslater,Bruce,wearingalongovercoat,withacoilofropeoveronearm,walkedpastthe

greenhouse. The long, low building where Bruce and Rachel had played together as children had not
fared well: glass was cracked or completely missing; paint was peeling from the wrought-iron frame.
Brucecontinuedtotheoldwellshaft;itwasalmostcompletelyovergrownwithweeds.

Brucewrenchedloosetheboardscoveringthewellandtossedthemaside.Hetiedoneendofhisrope

toanearbytreeandbeganloweringhimselfintothedark,chillyshaft.Whenhereachedthebottom,he
feltairblowingonhisface.Heunclippedaflashlightfromhisbeltandshoneitsbeamintoacrevice.
Herememberedanoldpanic...

...batstearingathim...

He stooped and pulled stones from the well’s curving wall until the crevice was wide enough to

accommodatehim.Then,onhishandsandknees,theflashlightwedgedbetweenchinandshoulder,he
crawled.

Within a few yards, the crevice widened into a low-ceilinged chamber. By bowing his head, Bruce

wasabletostand.Heheardrunningwater.Crouching,heinchedforward.Theangleofthestoneunder
hisbootschanged.Intheflashlightbeam,hesawthatthechamberfloorwastiltingdownward.Bruce
layonhisbackandslid,slowlyloweringhimselfinto—

Someplace huge—Bruce sensed that. He got a chemical torch from inside his coat, cracked it, and

threwit.Theharshmetallicglarerevealedavastcavern,long,taperedstalagmitesrisingfromitsfloor,
equallylongstalactitesjuttingfromabove.

Thetorchlightglintedonawidegapfullofrunningwaterthatroaredandsprayedwhitefoaminthe

centerofthecavern.

IwonderifI’mthefirstpersonevertoseethisplace...

He swept his flashlight beam upward, to the darkness between the stalactites, and saw a flicker of

movement. A second before they descended—thousands and thousands of flapping, chittering,
screechingbats—Brucerealizedwhattheywereandkneltandcoveredhisheadandfacewithhisarms.
Hefelthotpanic—

ThenherememberedthebatsthathadswarmedfromRā’salGhūl’sboxandfelthimselfgrowcalm.

Hismomentofterror,heknew,hadbeencreatedbythememoriesofsomeonewhonolongerexisted—
whohad not existedsince he sawhis parents’ blood spillingover pearls ina Gotham street alleyway.
Brucehadasecretthatchildhadnotyetlearned:Embraceyourworstfear...

Hethrewbackhisarmsandstoodcalmlyinthemidstoftheflutteringmaelstrom,smiling.

CHAPTERTEN

twasmidnightandtheFridayeveningcrowdinCarmineFalcone’sclubwasgettingrowdy.Falcone

listenedtotheraucouslaughterandoccasionalshouting,intermixedwiththefeebleeffortsofthejazz
combo, through his office wall. Sitting behind his mahogany desk, he was leaning back in his
overstuffedleatherchairandcontemplatingthethin,bespectacledmanwhostoodbeforehim,shifting
hisweightfromfoottofoot.

“Nomorefavors,Falcone,”JonathanCranesaid.“Someone’ssniffingaround.”

“Hey, Doc. Remember how it works? I scratch your back, you scratch mine. I’m bringing in your

shipments.”

“We’repayingyouforthat.”

“Maybemoneyisn’tasinterestingtomeasfavors.”

Craneleanedforward.Amomentago,heseemednervous.Now,hedidnot.“I’mawarethatyou’re

notintimidatedbyme.ButyouknowwhoI’mworkingforandwhenhegetshere—”

Falconestraightenedinhischair.“He’scomingtoGotham?”

“Andhe’snotgoingtowanttohearthatyou’veendangeredouroperationjusttogetyourthugsout

ofjailtime,”

Falconestaredathisdesktopforaminute.“Okay,who’sbotheringyou?”

“There’sagirlintheD.A.’soffice—”

Falconeshrugged.“We’llbuyheroff.”

“Notthisone.”

“Idealist,huh?Well,there’sananswerforthat,too.”

“Idon’twanttoknow.”

“Yes.Youdo,Dr.Crane.”

MostofGotham’sbusinesspeoplewerejuststragglingintotheiroffices,pouringtheirfirstpapercupful
ofcompanycoffee,loggingontotheircomputers,strategizingabouthowtogetthroughtheirday.But
WilliamEarlebelievedinearlystartsandso,althoughtheclockontheboardroomwallindicatedthatit
was not yet nine, the Wayne Enterprises staff meeting had been in full session for over an hour. A
young,smartlydressedblondmaninatailoredsuitnamedBarryMcFralandwasstanding,asheafof
papersinhishand,addressingthetenotherexecutivesintheroom.

“We’reshowingveryhealthygrowthinthesesectors,”hewassaying.

AnoldermannamedJosephFredericksspokewithoutgettingup.“Idon’tthinkthatThomasWayne

wouldhaveviewedheavy-armsmanufactureasasuitablecornerstoneofourbusiness.”

From his seat at the head of the table, Earle said, “I think, Fredericks, that after twenty years we

oughttobeatapointwherewestopaskingourselveswhatThomasWaynewouldhavedone.Thomas
Wayne wouldn’t have wanted to take the company public, either, but that’s what, as responsible
managers,we’regoingtodo.”

Fredericksstareddownattheyellowlegalpadinfrontofhimandsaidnothing.

Atthatmoment,aboutfiftyfeetaway,downaheavilycarpetedhallway,BruceWayneemergedfrom

anelevator,lookingquitedebonairinabusinesssuitandtie,andwalkedbrisklytothereceptiondesk
whereayoungwomanwasarrangingsomereportsinafolder.

“Goodmorning,”Brucesaidthroughawidesmile.“I’mheretoseeMr.Earle.”

Thewomandroppedthereportsandbroughtupthevisitors’listonacomputerscreen.“Name?”

“BruceWayne.”

Thewomanbegantoscanthelist,thenstoppedandlookedup,hereyeswidening.

Thephoneatherelbowbuzzed.

“Youcananswerthat,”Brucesaidpleasantly.“I’minnohurry.”

The woman put the receiver to her ear and heard Earle bark, “Jessica, get me that prospectus . . .

nevermind,I’llgetitmyself.”

ThirtysecondslaterEarlecamefromthehallway.“Jessica—”Hestoppedinmidstrideandstaredat

Bruce.

“Goodmorning,Mr.Earle,”Brucesaid.“Youmaynotrememberme.Wemetyearsago,whenIwas

akid.”

Earleseemedtohaveaproblemspeaking.Butfinallyhesaid,“Wethoughtyouweredead.”

“Sorrytodisappoint.”

Twenty minutes later, Bruce and Earle sat in Earle’s large office with windows overlooking all of

GothamCity’sdowntownarea,andwithaviewoftwentymilesormore,stretchingbeyondthesuburbs.
Jessicapouredcoffeeintochinacups,setthemonalow,marbletableinfrontofEarleandBruce,and
asked,“Willtherebeanythingelse?”

“Notatthemoment,”Brucesaid.“Later—whoknows?”

“Isupposeyouknowthatwe’vetakenthecompanypublic,”Earlesaid.

“Ididhearsomethingaboutthat.”

“Yourealize,Bruce,thatthepublicofferingisadonedeal.”

Bruce sipped coffee and sighed. “Excellent. What is it—Kona? From Hawaii?” He sipped again.

“Whereveritcomesfrom,it’sfirst-rate...Wherewerewe?Oh,yes.Thepublicoffering.Iunderstand
I’llbehandsomelyrewardedformyshares.”

“Veryhandsomelyindeed.”

“I’mnotheretointerfere,Mr.Earle.Actually,I’mlookingforajob.”Brucepaused,andputhiscup

onthetable.“Ijustwanttogettoknowthecompanythatmyfamilybuilt.”

“Anyideawhereyou’dstart?”

“AppliedSciencescaughtmyeye.”

“LuciusFox’sdepartment?Perfect.I’llmakeacall.”

“Thankyou.”Bruceroseandmovedtowardthedoor.

“Oh,and,Bruce?”Earlecalledafterhim.“Someoftheassistantsandsoon...becauseofyourname

theymayassume...”

Bruceheldupaflathand.“Nottoworry.I’llbeabsolutelyclearwitheveryonethatI’mjustanother

humbleemployee.”

BrucewascuriousaboutLuciusFox.HisfatherhadoncecalledFox“thebesthireIevermade.The

man’sdarnnearauniversalgenius.Doctoratesinbothengineeringandchemistrybeforehewastwenty-
fiveandonlyathesisawayfromanotherdoctorateinphysics.”Howwouldauniversalgeniuswitha
coupleofPhDsreacttoaworld-classcollegedropout?

BruceaskedJessicawheretheAppliedSciencesDepartmentwasand,followingherdirections,took

an elevator to the sub-basement level and went through a heavy metal fire door into a windowless
chamber.Therewasasinglelightbulbhangingfromawireoverabatteredsteeldesk.AwiryAfrican
American man in his fifties, wearing a rumpled suit and a bright red bow tie, sat behind it and
contemplatedBruceoverthetopofhisglasses.

“You’reBruceWayne?”heaskedinthelaziestdrawlBrucehadeverheard.

“Guilty.”

“LuciusFox.”FoxcamearoundthedeskandshookBruce’shand.Nothingabouthowhemovedwas

aslazyashisdrawl.“Whatdidtheytellyouthisplacewas?”

“Theydidn’ttellmeanything.”

Foxchuckled.“Earletoldmeexactlywhatitwaswhenhesentmehere—”

Fox flicked a switch on the wall, the sudden light revealing that they were standing in a massive

warehouse.Cratesandboxesandbales,manyunderdustcovers,werestackedeverywhere.

“—Adeadend,”Foxcontinued,“whereIcouldn’tcauseanymoretroublefortheboard.”

“Youwereontheboard?”

“Backwhenyourfatherranthings.”

“Youknewmyfather?”

“Sure.Helpedhimbuildhismonorail.Wanttoseesomeofourmoreinterestingstuff?”

“Sure.”

Fox led Bruce around a stack of crates to a steel box and pulled from it what looked like a small

electricdrillandacoilofthinwire.“Ifyou’reaclimber,you’lllikethis.Pneumatic.Magneticgrapple.”

Bruceliftedthegearandbounceditonhispalm.“Light.”

“Strong,too,”Foxsaid.“Monofilamenttestedto350pounds.”

Brucepickedupsomethingelse.“Thisgowithit?”

“Yep.Aharness.Tryiton.”

Bruceslippedhisarmsthroughtheshoulderstrapsandtightenedawidebeltaroundhiswaist,then

shovedthepneumaticgunintothebeltbuckle.Itclickedintoplace.

“Whatusedidyouhaveinmindforthisstuff?”Bruceasked.

“Your father’s philosophy was, if you have an idea for a gadget, build it first, figure out what it’s

goodforlater.”

“Avariationon‘ifyoubuildittheywillcome.’”

“Iguess.”

BruceshedtheharnessandfollowedFoxdeeperintothejungleofcrates.

“Beautifulproject,thatelevatedtrainofyourfather’s,”Foxreminisced.Hehadapparentlyforgotten

whattheyhadbeentalkingabout.“RoutedthetracksrightintoWayneTower,alongwiththewaterand
powerutilities.MadeWayneTowertheunofficialheartofGotham.Course,Earle’sleftittorot...”

Foxstoppedandpeeredatthestenciledletteringonanarrow,uprightcrate.“Foundit.Knewitwas

heresomeplace.”

Heliftedthelidupandsetitaside.Adarkbodysuithunginsidethecrate.“Thenomexsurvivalsuit

foradvancedinfantry.Kevlarbi-weave,reinforcedjoints...”

Brucerubbedthefabricbetweenthumbandforefinger.“Tearresistant?”

“Thissucker’llstopaknife.”

“Bulletproof?”

“Anythingshortofadirecthitwithalarge-caliberslug.”

“Whydidn’ttheyputitintoproduction?”

Foxsighed.“Thebeancountersfiguredasoldier’slifewasn’tworththethreehundredgrand.”

“I’dliketoborrowit.Forspelunking.Youknow,cavediving.”

Foxshruggedandputthelidbackonthecrate.“Yougetalotofgunfiredowninthosecaves?”

Bruce smiled. “Never hurts to be ready for the worst. Listen, Mr. Fox, I’d rather Mr. Earle didn’t

knowaboutmeborrowing...”

“Mr. Wayne, the way I see it”—Lucius Fox swept his arm in a wide arc—“all this stuff is yours

anyway.”

“Ihaveanotherrequest,Mr.Fox.”

“Fireaway.”

“I’minneedofakindof...toolbelt,Iguessyoucouldcallit.DoyouthinkIcouldkeeptheharness

andbeltaswell?”

“Ofcourse.”

Brucesmiled.Hewouldneveragainhavetoholdanattachécasebetweenhisteeth.

CHAPTERELEVEN

tninethenextmorning,AlfredtelephonedtheGothamTimesSocietyPageeditortoreportthatBruce

Wayne,sonofthelateDr.andMrs.ThomasWayne,hadreturnedfromanextendedsojournabroadand
hadtakenupresidenceattheancestralWayneManor.

Byonethatafternoon,elevenothernewsorganizationshadcalledandthreelocaltelevisionstations

had sent reporters and camera crews to interview Bruce, who took the calls and met with the
newspeople.Hesmiled,chatted,showedthemaroundtheestate.

AllthelocalpapersranbriefitemsaboutBruce’sreturn,thoughnoneofthemwereinthemainnews

sections,andmostofthelocalradiostationsmentioneditduringtheirhourlynewsbreaks.Oneofthe
televisionoutletsignoredthestorycompletelyandtheothertworanitasthirty-seconditemsrightafter
theweatherforecasts.

AtelevisionreporternamedKassieCanetoldherboyfriendwhyBruceWayne’sreturngotsolittle

play.

“Therewasnowaywecouldmakeastoryofit,”Kassiesaid.“Imean,Iwantedto...good-looking

guy,richerthanCroesus,returnoftheprodigal,allthat...ButIswear,talkingtohimisliketalkingto
awall.Thelightsareonbutnobody’shome.Hewasnice,evenkindofsweet,andheobviouslywanted
topleaseus,buttherewasnopersonalitythere.”

“Who’sCroesus?”herboyfriendasked.

Ateleven-thirtythatnight,Brucethumbedtheoffbuttonontheremoteandthetelevisionscreenheand
Alfredhadbeenwatchingwentdark.

“YourfellowGothamitesseemremarkablyunperturbedbyyourreappearanceamongthem,”Alfred

said.

“Theydoseemtobecontainingtheirexcitement.Onehastoadmiretheirself-control.”

“Itakeitthatallhasgoneasyouwish.”

“Theold‘hideinplainsight’ploy.Stilloneofthegreatones.”

Bruce,wearingtheclimbingharnessandbeltthatFoxhadsenttoWayneManor,hungthirtyfeetabove
thecavefloor,hammeringabracketintothestone.Alineofindustriallampshungfromthebracketand
anelectricwireranfromthelampstoageneratorbelow.

“Okay,”Bruceshouted.“Giveitatry.”

Alfredthrewaswitchandthelampsflickeredon,dimlylightingthelengthofonewallandhundreds

ofbatshangingfromtheceiling.

“Atleastyou’llhavecompany,”Alfredsaid,staringupatathrongofbats.

Brucerappeleddown,unhookedhisrope,movedtoawrought-ironspiralstaircaseatoneendofthe

cavern,andshookit.

“Thiswasgrandfather’s?”heasked.

“Great-grandfather’s. During the Civil War he was involved with the underground railroad. He

secretlyhelpedtransportescapedslaves.Isuspectthesecavernscameinhandy.”

Bruceshoneaflashlightbeamonthesmallriverandthenontheplacewherethewaterdisappeared

underrocks.Hesteppedovertherocksandcontinuedfollowingtheriveraroundabenduntilhestopped
andstaredatwhathisflashlightbeamwasrevealing:abeautifulcurtainofwater.

“Alfred, come here,” Bruce shouted, and his words echoed throughout the cavern. He hopped over

slick,glisteningrocksandreachedouttotouchthewaterfall.

Thefollowingday,Brucewasbackatworkinthecave.Hebroughtafewitemsdownwithhim:tools,
lumber,someapples,andthesooty,bloodyninjasuithe’dbroughtfromKathmandu—hisfirsttrophy.
He had fashioned a rough worktable by putting a board between two sawhorses and laid on it two
bronze gauntlets, the ones he had salvaged from Rā’s al Ghūl’s monastery. He picked up a battery-
poweredpaintsprayerandgavethemamatte-blackfinish.Next,helaythecombatsuithehadgotten
fromLuciusFoxonhismakeshifttrestleandsprayedthatblack.

“Ohhh-kay,”hemurmured.

Alfred descended the spiral staircase carrying an armful of rolled papers. He spread them onto the

tableandsaid,“IbelieveIhaveourproblemssolved.”

“Tellme,”Brucesaid.

Alfred pointed to a diagram. “If we order the main point of this . . . cowl? If we order that from

Singapore—”

“Viaashellcorporation.”

“Indeed.Then,quiteseparately,placeanorderthroughaChinesemanufacturerforthese—”

Hepointedtoadrawingofwhatlookedlikeapairofhorns.

Brucenodded.“Putittogetherourselves.”

“Precisely.Ofcourse,they’llhavetobelargeorderstoavoidsuspicion.”

“Howlarge?”

“Say,tenthousand.”

“Atleastwe’llhavespares.”AsBrucewasrefoldingtheschematics,hesaid,“Thecavestillneedsa

lotofworktobewhatIwantittobe.”

“Andwhatexactlyisthat,MasterBruce?”

Bruce hesitated, gazing up into the darkness at the top of the cavern. “A workshop, of course. A

laboratory.Aplacetostorethings.Agarageand...aplacetobewhoI’mbecoming.Aplacefitfora
batmantolive.Andsomeotherstuff...TVcamerastoscanalltheroadsintheareasoIdon’tget
surprised coming or going. And I think we should have a second way in and out in case something
blocksthepantry.We’llneedcarpentry,masonry,electronics,maybehydraulics...alotofskillswe

don’thave.”

“Perhapsnotyet.Buttheworldisbrimmingwithinformationandwehaveaccesstomostofit.”

“Soyou’resayingwecandotheworkourselves?”

“Wemanagedthelights,didn’twe?”

“Thatwedid,Alfred.Thatwedid.”

CHAPTERTWELVE

twasafewminutesaftertenandalreadyFalcone’sclubwasfilledtocapacity.Theairwasdensewith

smokeandliquorfumesandoccasionallythehootofaship’shorncouldbeheardfromoutside,overthe
soundofthethree-piecejazzcombothatwasmostlyignoredbytheclubbers.

JudgeFadensatbetweentwoyoungwomenwhoworesatinycocktaildresses;hehadadrinkinone

handandagreencigarintheother.CarmineFalconestoppednexttothejudgeandputafriendlyhand
onhisshoulder,thenmovedaway.

“Carmine,”thejudgeshouted.“Whereareyougoing?”

Falconelookedbackoverhisshoulder.“Dutycalls.Youhaveyourselfagoodtime,Judge.”

ThejudgeassuredFalconethathewould,finishedhisdrink,andwhisperedsomethingtooneofthe

young women. He and the woman rose and threaded their way to the front of the club, went up the
flightofstepsandacrosstheneon-litsidewalktoawaitinglimousine.Fadenopenedthedoor,bowed
ceremoniously,andguidedthewomanintothecar.Astoopedman,obviouslyastreetperson,scurried
fromwhereafireburnedinanoilbarrelnearby,leavingacompanionwhowaswearingafawn-colored,
cashmereovercoattocontinuewarminghimselfattheflames.Hewenttothelimo’sreardoorand,with
afoot,preventedJudgeFadenfrompullingitshut.

“Helpaguyout?”heaskedthejudge.

“Getaway,”thejudgesaid,andthewomangiggled.

Thehomelesspersonseemedtoslipandfallhalfwayintothecar.Hewasmutteringanapologywhen

theuniformeddrivergrabbedthebackofhiscollarandyanked.Thedriverflunghimtothesidewalk
andkickedhim.

Thesecondmanbythefireshouted,“Leavehimalone.Lethimbe.”

Thelimospedoff,bumpingontheroughpavementtowardabeltwaythatledoutofthecity.Theman

whohadbeenkickedsmiledandstraightenedandlookedatatinyvideoreceiverhewasholdingwaist-
high.Onit,ingrainyblack-and-white,weretheimagesofJudgeFadenandhiscompanionsittinginthe
backseatofthelimo.

“Thepicture’snotgreat,”Brucesaid.“Butitwilldo.Itwillcertainlydo.”

DetectiveFlassenteredFalcone’sclubbyasidedoorandsatacrossfromthemobboss.

“Ineedyouatthedockstomorrownight,”Falconesaid.

“Problem?”

“Insurance.Idon’twantanyproblemswiththislastshipment.”

“Sure,”Flasssaid.“WordonthestreetisyougotabeefwithsomeoneintheD.A.’soffice.”

“Isthatright?”

“Andthatyou’veofferedapriceondoingsomethingaboutit.”

“What’syourpoint,Flass?”

“You’veseenthisgirl?CutelittleassistantD.A.That’salotofheattobringdown,eveninthistown.

Evenforyou,Carmine.”

“NeverunderestimateGotham.Besides,peoplegetmuggedonthewayhomefromworkeveryday.”

Across the street, Bruce Wayne stood in a doorway, adjusting a directional microphone hooked under
hisearandhearingtheendofFalcone’sconversationwithFlass.“Sometimes,”Falconewassaying,“it
goesbad.”

Bruce switched off the microphone and got into his car parked nearby. He was wearing the black

bodysuit and gauntlets. He drove three miles uptown and parked in an alley across from Gotham’s
CentralPoliceHeadquartersandpulledonaskimask.Heclimbedawindowlesswall,usingthespikes
on the gauntlets to pull himself up, topped the balustrade, and ran silently over tar paper until he
reached the front parapet. Then he waited. A few minutes later he saw James Gordon park a police
sedaninfrontoftheheadquartersandenterthebuilding.

Gordonwalkedpastthedesksergeantandupaflightofricketystairstothedetectives’areaonthe

secondfloorandintohisoffice.Heslammedthedoorbehindhimandslumpedintoachair,hisbackto
thesingledustywindow.Heremovedhisglasses,wipedthemonhistie,switchedonthedesklamp,and
pulledastackofreportsfromanin-box.

Suddenlythelightwentoutandsomeoneveryclosebehindhimsaid,“Don’tturnaround.”

Somethingwassuddenlypressingagainstthebackofhisneck—somethingthatfeltlikeagun.

“Whatdoyouwant?”Gordonasked,hisvoicelevel,conversational.

“You’reagoodcop.Oneofthefew.”

Gordon narrowed his eyes, puzzled. If this were a hit, he would be dead by now. So what kind of

caperwasit?

The person behind him continued. “Carmine Falcone brings in shipments of drugs every week.

Nobodytakeshimclown.Why?”

“He’spaidupwiththerightpeople.”

“Whatwouldittaketobringhimdown?”

Should he answer? Why not? He was not saying anything that every beat cop in the city did not

know.“LeverageonJudgeFaden...AndaD.A.braveenoughtoprosecute.”

“RachelDawesintheD.A.’soffice.”Itwasnotaquestion.

“Whoareyou?”

“Watchformysign.”

“You’rejustoneman?”

“Nowwearetwo.”

“We?”

Gordonfeltthepressureonhisneckeaseandwaitedforareply.Finally,heturnedaround;theroom

wasempty.Herantotheopenwindowandlookeddownatthestreet,emptyexceptforparkedcars.He
lookedupandglimpsedafiguresilhouettedagainstthenightskyvanishingontotheroof.

He moved, racing across the floor to the stairwell, drawing his pistol as he went. Two uniformed

patrolmensawhimandfollowed,reachingfortheirholsters.

Gordon, with the two cops only a few steps behind, ran onto the roof and saw someone dressed in

black near the parapet. He knew the space between police headquarters and the parking garage next
doorwastoofartojump.Heaimedhispistolandyelled,“Freeze!”

Thefiguresprintedforwardandjumped.

Gordon reached the parapet in time to see the man—he guessed it was a man—hit the side of the

garageafewfeetbeneaththeroofedgeandfallandgrabafire-escapebalconybelow,thensomehow
meltintotheshadows.

Gordonloweredhisweapon.

Oneofthepatrolmenasked,“Whatthehellwasthat?”

“Justsomenut.”

Yeah,Gordonthought,somenut...

Itwasnotyeteighto’clockthenextmorningwhenBruceWayne,wearinganexpensive,tailoredsuit,
enteredWayneTowerandsmiledateveryonehepassed.Hetooktheelevatortothebasementand
enteredtheAppliedSciencesDepartment.LuciusFoxwasalreadybehindhisdesk.

Foxsmiled.“What’sittoday?Morespalunking?”

“Spee-lunking,”Brucesaid.“Andno,todayit’sbase-jumping.”

“Base-jumping?What,likeparachuting?”

“Kindof.Doyouhaveanylightweightfabrics?”

FoxlookedatBruceoverhisglasses.“Oh,yeah.Waithere.”

Fox went behind a stack of crates and, a minute later, emerged holding a sheet of black cloth. He

gaveittoBruceandasked,“Noticeanything?”

Bruceranthecloththroughhisfingersandshookhishead.

Fox put on a thick canvas glove. “Memory fabric. Flexible, ordinarily, but put an electric current

throughit—”

Foxpressedabuttononthegloveandtherewasafaintbuzz.Thefabricinstantlychangedshapeand

becameasmalltent.

“Themoleculesalignandbecomerigid,”Foxconcluded.

Brucepressedhisfingersonthefabrictent.Itdidnotbend.“Whatkindofshapescanyoumake?”

Foxagaintouchedthetentwiththeelectrifiedgloveandthetentrevertedtobeingasquareofblack

cloth.“Itcouldbetailoredtoanystructurebasedonarigidskeleton.”

“Tooexpensiveforthearmy?”

“Yeah. Guess they never thought about marketing to the billionaire base-jumping, spelunking

market.”

“Look,Mr.Fox,ifyou’reuncomfortable...”

“Mr.Wayne,ifyoudon’ttellmewhatyou’rereallydoing,thenwhenIgetasked,Idon’thavetolie.

Butdon’ttreatmelikeanidiot.”

“Fairenough.Anythingelseabillionaire,base-jumping,spelunkingwastrelmightwanttosee?”

Foxgesturedtosomethingcoveredbyatarpaulin.“IcouldshowyoutheTumbler...butnah,you

wouldn’tbeinterested...”

“Showme.”

TheyhadtheTumblerloadedontoaflatbedtruckandfolloweditinFox’scartoatesttracknearasmall
airfield, where the Tumbler was downloaded. Fox, with a bow and a flourish, swept away the canvas
covertorevealthestrangestvehicleBrucehadeverseen.

“ItlookslikeacrossbetweenaLamborghiniCountachandaHumvee,”hesaidtoFox.

Bruce and Fox climbed into the Tumbler and Fox began explaining the controls. When he was

finished,hesaid,“Shewasbuiltasabridgingvehicle.Youhitthatbutton—”

BruceputhisforefingeroutandFoxshouted,“Notnow!”

Brucejerkedhisfingerback.

“It boosts her into a rampless jump,” Fox continued. “In combat, two of them jump a river towing

cables,thenyourunabaileybridgeacross.Damnbridgeneverworked,butthisbabyworksjustfine.”

Brucesettledintothedriver’sseatandtestedhisreachtothevariousbuttonsandlevers.Thefitwas

perfect;itwasasthoughtheTumblerhadbeenbuiltforhim.

“Wouldyouliketotakeherforaspin?”Foxasked.

Brucepushedtheignitionbutton,easedthestickintofirstgear,andtoedthegaspedal.TheTumbler

shotforward.ToBruceitseemedlikethefirstbendinthetrackwasinhiswindshieldimmediately.He
tappedthebrakepedalandtheTumblerskiddedtoahalt.

“Iforgottotellyou,”Foxsaid.“She’skindapeppy.Whatdoyouthink?”

BruceinchedtheTumblerforwardandsmiled.“Doesitcomeinblack?”

ThreedayslaterBruceandAlfredwereinthecavebelowthemansion,bentoveraworkbenchtheyhad
installed,examiningwhatlookedlikeabatter’shelmet.AsBrucewatched,Alfredpickedupabaseball
batandslammedthehelmet-thing,breakingitintwo.

“Problems with the graphite mixture,” Alfred said. “The next ten thousand will be up to

specifications.”

“Atleasttheygaveusadiscount,”Brucesaid.

“Quite.Inthemeantime,mightIsuggestyoutrytoavoidlandingonyourhead?”

“Goodidea.”Brucemovedtowheretheutilitybeltandgrapplinggunwerehungonamannequin.

“Timetobegintesting.”

Heremovedtheutilitybelt,nowfreedoftheharness,fromthemannequinandstrappediton,shaking

theguntobecertainthatitwasfirmlynestledinitsbuckleholster.Hewentbacktothebenchandput
on a pair of gloves, one with electric contacts in the fingers and a tiny but powerful battery on the

undersideofthewrist.EachglovehadscallopslikethoseonthegauntletshehadwornatRā’salGhūl’s
monastery.

“Devilishlyhandsome,ifImaysayso,MasterBruce,”Alfredcommented.

“Emphasisonthe‘devilish,’Iassume.”

Bruceliftedacurvedmetalobjectfromthebench,heftedit,andthrewitatastalactite.Itwhistled

acrossthecaveandbitdeepintothestone.

“Yourboomerangdidnotcomeback,”Alfredsaid.

“It’snotsupposedto,unlessitmisseswhatI’maimingat.Bytheway,Alfred,I’mthinkingofcalling

thesethings‘Batarangs.’Whatdoyouthink?”

“Devilishlyclever,”Alfredsaid.

ThefollowingmorningtherewasasmallitemburiedinthelocalgossipcolumnoftheGothamTimes.It
toldtheworldthatBruceWayne,newlyreturnedtothecity,wasleavingagainforabriefvacationin
northern California. He planned to see the sights in and around San Francisco and was considering a
fewdays’hangglidingatMountTamalpais.

Readingthesnippetonawestboundplane,Brucethoughtitamistaketohaveleakedthepartabout

hangglidingbecauseitmightcallattentiontoabilitieshewantedtoremainhidden.

Hewaslivingandlearning.

HereturnedfromMountTamalpaisaweeklaterbycommercialcarrier.Hetoldtheperkyyoungwoman
behind the airline’s ticket counter that his wallet with his credit cards and ID had been stolen but,
fortunately, he always carried emergency cash in his sock and would five hundred be enough for
passagetoGotham?Itwashighlyirregularandtheperkyticketsellerhadtoconferwithhersupervisor,
butfinallyBrucewasallowedtoboardtheplane.

He arrived at Gotham International at four in the morning, his only concern that he might run into

someoneheknewintheterminal.Hedidnotwantanyonetoknowhewasbackyetbecausehisalter
ego was about to reappear and he was afraid that someone—that smart cop Gordon, for example—
might connect Bruce Wayne’s return with the mystery man. Sooner or later, he would make a big,
clumsydealofthewastrel’shomecoming—dosomethingstupid,maybe.

Heneednothaveworried.Noonewasintheterminalexceptafewindifferentmaintenanceworkers,

andthefollowingnightnoonesawhimenterseveralofCarmineFalcone’shabitatsandvehiclesand
installtinymicrophones.

Athislaststop,anapartmentFalconeownednearthetheaterdistrict,Bruceplacedhisbugandwent

upthefireescapetotheroof.Hewaited,asmallreceiverinhisear,untiltheskybegantolighten.

Timetopackitin...

Throughhisearpiece,heheardthesoundofadooropening,theclinkofglassagainstglass,andtwo

voices.HerecognizedFalcone’s:“Tomorrownight,pierfourteen.Tellyourguys.”

Asecondvoice:“Don’tworry,Mr.F.They’llbethere.”

Tomorrownight.Pierfourteen.It’sadate...

Anicywindwasblowingoffthebay.Already,thedockareawaschilled;soon,thewindwouldchillthe
entirecity.Awispymistblurredthestreetlampsandsoftenedtheedgesofthelargecargocontainer,one
ofdozensofsimilarcontainers.

Bigger, Alfie, and Steiss were finally working, unloading boxes, and it was about time. They had

arrivedatpierfourteenateight-thirty,asMr.Falconeinsisted,andthenwaitedaroundforthreehours
untilthehugeoverheadcranehadswungacargocontainerfromthedeckofafreighterontothedock.
ThenightwasgrowingcoldandSteissandBiggerpulledthezippersoftheirjacketshigher.Suddenly
headlightsfromanapproachingsedanlitthesceneandthethreestoppedandforseveralsecondsdidnot
move.

DetectiveFlassgotoutofthecarandstrodebrisklytooneoftheunloadedboxes.Heparteditsflaps,

reachedinside,andbroughtoutastuffedbear.Hetosseditontoanearbypileofbears.Nexttothebears
wasapileofstuffedrabbits.

“Cute,”hesaid.

He went to where a limousine was parked at the curb and let himself into the backseat. Carmine

Falconewasalreadythere,astuffedrabbitinhislap.

“Looksfineoutthere,”Flasssaid.“Sothebearsgostraighttothedealers—”

“AndtherabbitsgotoourmanintheNarrows,”Falconesaid.

“What’sthedifference?”

“Ignoranceisbliss,myfriend.Don’tburdenyourselfwiththesecretsofscarypeople.”

“Scarierthanyou?”

“Considerablyscarierthanme.”

Outside, the work of unloading the containers continued beneath a single overhead lamp. Steiss

handedaboxtoBigger,whotookitawaydownanarrowpassagewaybetweenthestackedcontainers.
Steissturnedbacktothedarknessintheopencontainerandwasyankedinside.

Amomentlater,Biggerheardamuffledgroan.Hesettheboxdownandcalled,“Steiss?”

Therewasnoreply.BiggerpulledagunfromunderhisjacketandnoddedtoAlfie,whowascoming

fromthedocks.

Biggersaid,“Comeon,wegotta—”

Alfiedrewhisowngunandtogethertheymovedtowardtheopencontainer.

Behindthem,somethingwhistledfromtheshadowsandtheoverheadlampshattered.Thetwomen

jerkedaround,raisingtheirweapons.ThethingthathadhitthelampfelltothegroundandAlfielifted
it,tryingtoseeexactlywhatitwasinthedarkness.Hisgazewentpastittothehugecranethatloomed
againsttheskyandthewingedshapethathungfromit.

Theshapemoved.

Alfieblinkedandwhispered,“Whatthehell...”

Thewingedshapedroppedanditswingswhippedoutandbecamerigid.Theshape—wasitaman?—

somersaultedandenvelopedAlfie.

Bigger ran, his arms pumping, the breath exploding from his mouth. He charged down the narrow

passagebetweenthestacksofcontainers,cametoacorner,slowedandroundedit,andracedtowardthe
street.Ablacknesswithwingsdescendedonhimandhescreamed.

Inthelimo,FalconeandFlassheardthescream.Flassgotoutofthecar,pulledanautomaticfroma

shoulderholster,andeyesscanningthearea,movedtowardthedocks.

“Wherethehell’rethelights?”hemuttered.

Heslippedintothepassagebetweenthecontainersandhisfoothitsomethingsoftthatmoaned.He

knelt,struckamatch,andsawBigger,alivebutunconscious.

Flassrantothelimo,jerkedopenthedoor,andtoldFalcone,“Calltheclub.Getsomemoremen.Tell

’emtobringguns.”

Lessthanfiveminuteslater,eightmenboltedupthestepsfromFalcone’scluband,puffing,ranto

thedocks,ablockaway.Falcone,cradlingashotgun,waitedforthembesidethelimo.Hetoldthemthat
somebodywasaroundwhodidnotbelongandtofindthatpersonandkillhim.

As they crept toward the containers, guns leveled ahead of them, the smallest of the gunmen

whispered,“Iwishwedidn’thavetadothis.”

Hisnearestcompanionsaid,“Shutup,Jimmy.”

“Ididn’tmeannothing,Willy,only...”

“Shutup,”Willyrepeated.Willyturnedtoathirdman.“Yougotanyideawhatweshoulddo,Lou?”

“Youheardtheboss,”Loureplied.“Findsomethingandkillit.”

“Maybeweoughtasplitup,”Willysaid.

“Thatain’tsuchagoodidea...”

ThistimeLousaid,“Shutup,Willy.”

Theyseparated,Willygoingintothepassagebetweenthecontainers,LouandJimmycirclingaround

totheloadingarea,theotherfivecreepingthroughthenarrowspacesbetweenthestacksofcontainers.

AdarkshapefellonWillyandthenWillyfell,unconscious.

Lou inched onto the dock, saw nothing, returned to where the containers were stacked. The dark

shapeleapedfromthepassageway.AnarmflashedintoviewandyankedLoubackintotheshadows.

JimmysawLouandtheshapevanishfromwherehehadbeenstandingfortyfeetaway.Heliftedhis

gun.TheshapereappearedandJimmyfiredatit.Thedarkshapedartedacrossthespacebetweentwo
cratesandJimmyfiredagainandkeptfiringuntilthehammerofhisgunfellonanemptychamber.

Hefumbledinhiscoatpocketforafreshclipand,hisvoiceedgedwithpanic,shouted,“Whereare

you?”

Heheardawhisperinhisear:“Here.”

Jimmyturnedhisheadandwaslookingintoamaskedface,inchesfromhis,hangingupsidedown.

Somethingclosedoverhimandhefelltotheground.

Flass was still outside the stacks of containers and crates, his gun held loosely at his side. He was

listening, hard, and he heard only the lapping of water and the distant rush of traffic. He went to
Falcone’slimo,openedareardoor,andpokedhisheadinside.

“Whatthehell’sgoingon?”Falconedemanded.

“You’vegotaproblemoutthere.”

“Yeah?ThenI’llsolveit.”

Falcone, gripping his shotgun by the stock, left the limo and he and Flass went into the stacks and

separated. Falcone lifted his shotgun to waist level, aimed the barrel ahead of himself, and curled a
forefingeraroundthetrigger.

He heard noises coming from the containers: grunts, groans, the dull thud of blows. He just stood,

shotgunhalfraised.

After fifteen minutes, Flass rejoined Falcone and together, guns stuck out in front of them like the

prows of ships, they searched for and found their men. All were unconscious except for Jimmy, who
wasbabblingaboutabigblackbird.Theydidnotbothertohelptheirfallenemployees.

“Whatdoyouthink?”Flassasked.

“Ithinkwegetthehelloutofhereuntilweknowwhat’sgoingon.”

TheyreturnedtothelimoandFlasscontinuedontohisowncar.Falconegotintheback,tappedon

thePlexiglaspartitionbetweenthepassengercompartmentandthedriver’sseat,andsaid,“Let’sgo.”

Therewasnoanswer.Falconeloweredthepartitionandshookthedriver,whofell,forwardontothe

steeringwheel.

Thelimoshookassomethinglandedontheroof.Falcone’sheadwhippedaroundandhepeeredup

outofthesunroofwindowatthesilhouetteabovehim.

“Whatthehellareyou?”Falconemurmured.

Foramoment,therewasstillness.

Then the glass sunroof shattered and a pair of black-clad arms grabbed Falcone by the lapels and

yankedhimupthroughtheopeninguntilhisfacewaslevelwithanotherface,onehiddenbyamask.

“I’mBatman,”themaskedmansaid.

A block away, Joey, hugging his cashmere coat around him and warming himself at his blazing oil

barrel,heardastifledshout.Cautiously,helefthisfireandcreptuptheblock,keepinghimselfagainst
thewalls,scurryingpasttheislandoflightfromthestreet-lamps.Hereachedthedocksandgasped—
couldnothelpbutgasp—whenhesawatallfigureinblack,withascallopedcapeblowingbehindit,
standingontheroofofalimousine.

“Nicecoat,”thefiguretoldJoeyandvanished—upwardintothenightsky!

Joeylookeddownathiscoatandbacktowherethefigurehadbeen.“Thanks,”hesaid.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

achel Dawes sat in the monorail car, alternately staring out the window at the lights of the city

blurring past and back into the car at the graffiti that covered virtually every surface. She was alone
exceptforathinmanwhosatatoneendofthecar,headbent,speakingintoacellphone.

Rachel allowed her head to fall forward and closed her eyes. She was exhausted. She had just

finished a sixteen-hour day at the office where she had achieved nothing except frustration. It
sometimes seemed as though all of the city’s criminals except jaywalkers were immune from
prosecution.Somuchdisappointmentinherliferightnow...

Rachelwasnotonetofeelsorryforherself,butshehadtoadmittoachroniclow-leveldepression.

She had grown up assuming that she and Bruce Wayne would go through high school and college
together and then get married and begin having it all—children, friends, and careers, a lifetime spent
improvingGothamCity.ButBrucehadbeengoneforyears,onlyresurfacingrecently.Yethehadmade
noefforttocontactherorseeher.Shecouldnothelpbutfeelstungbythis.

As for improving Gotham City—big laugh. You could not improve the unimprovable. Rachel had

graduated at the top of her Harvard law class and had been besieged with offers from the big-bucks
firmsinNewYork,Chicago,LosAngeles...Ifshehadacceptedanyoneofthem,bynowshe’dbe
pulling down two-fifty k, easily, driving a Beemer, living in an expensive apartment, dating
congressmen.Instead,she’dchosentoreturntoGothamandtakeajobintheD.A.’sofficethatbarely
paidtherentonacrampedstudioapartmentinaborderlineneighborhoodandkepthereatingthetuna
salad that was her main sustenance. She’d kept that job a lot longer than she expected she would,
despite an unblemished record of successes. In Gotham, apparently, there was no such thing as a
deservedpromotion.

Because, dammit, she wanted to make a difference! She’d seen the law as a bulwark against life’s

chaosandawaytocreatemeaningandharmony,nottheendlesssuccessionofcompromiseandsleazy
deal-makingthatwasherdailylot.

And her love life? Another laugh. Oh, sure, she’d dated a few guys, some lawyers, some junior

entrepreneurs,butafteranhoureithertheyboredherorseemedintimidatedbyher.Shewasawarethat
herboss’sinterestinherwasmorethanprofessional,butalthoughCarlwasasweetheart,hedidnothing
forher.Afterawhile,shetiredofbeinghitonbythecourthousecrowd—thelawyers,cops,evensome
judges.

Thetrainroundedabendandslowedtoahalt,breakingherthoughts.Theyhadarrivedatherstation.

Rachel moved out onto the platform, unlighted because its lamps had been broken for months, and
steppingthroughlitter,descendedthestaircase,dimlyawarethatthethinmanhadalsoleftthetrainand
was somewhere behind her. That made Rachel uneasy, but almost everything in Gotham made her
uneasythesedays.Instinctively,shehuggedherbagtoherchest.

Halfwaydownthestairstotheparkinglot,alargemanappeared,blockingherway.Rachel’sunease

becamealarmandshescannedthearea,seekinghelp.Butthestationwasdesertedandtheparkinglot
emptyexceptforhercarandablackSUVparkedneartheexit.Thethinmanwasdescendingtoward
her.Sherandowntheremainingstepsandtriedtopushpastthelargeman.Hegrabbedherarm,butshe
slammedherbagintohishead.Reachinginsideit,shebroughtoutaTaser,andaimeditatthemanshe
hadjusthit.

“Holdit!”sheyelled.

Thethinmanwasonlyacoupleofyardsawayandherweaponneededtobereloadedaftereveryuse.

Ifsheshotthelargemanthethinmanwouldbeonher...

Inthe dim lightfrom a distantstreetlamp, she saw thelarge man’s expressionchange as he looked

past her, over her shoulder. She heard a rustling sound and chanced a glance back. She saw a black
shapeenvelopingthethinman,tearinghimoffhisfeetandintotheshadows.

Thelargemanspunandlumberedoff.

“You’dbetterrun,”Rachelshoutedafterhim.

Rachelturnedandcaughtherbreath.Ablack,demonicshapewascrouchedonarailing,adarkcape

billowingbehindit.Racheldidnothesitate;sheshottheTaser.Aprojectile,trailingtwowires,struck
thedemon-thingand,Rachelknew,hititwithfiftythousandvoltsofelectricity.Sparksdancedaround
theprojectileandintheirflickershesawamaskedfacecalmlyregardingher.

Themaskedmancasuallypulledonthewires,tuggingtheprojectilefromhischest.

Hesaid,“Nexttime,tryMace.”Thevoicewaslowandhoarse,possiblydisguised.

“Areyouwith...him?”Rachelasked,pointingtothethinman,whohadtumbledtothebottomof

thesteps.

“No.Falconesenthimtokillyou.”

“Why?”

“Yourattledhiscage.”

The masked man produced some photographs from somewhere under his cloak and tossed them to

Rachel.Sheheldthephotostoletthelightfromthedistantlampstrikethem.Theywerecompromising
picturesofJudgeFadenandsomewoman.Rachelwouldevencallthemdamning.

“What’sthis?”sheasked.

“Leverage.”

“Forwhat?”

“Togetthingsmoving.”

Rachelsteppedclosertothemaskedmanandtriedtopeerathisface.Therewassomethingfamiliar

abouthim...“Whoareyou?”

“Someonelikeyou...Someonewho’llrattlethecages.”

AtrainpulledontotheplatformabovethemandforamomentRachelwasblindedbyitsheadlight.

Whenhervisioncleared,shewasalone.Butnotexhausted,asshehadbeenonlyminutesearlier.No,
nowwhatRachelfeltwassomethingakintoexcitement.

JimGordonsippedcoffeefromapapercup.Lousycoffee,alreadycold.Hedroppedthehalf-fullcup
into a trash container, buttoned his trench coat all the way up, and walked onto the dock to where a
uniformedcopwasshininghisflashlightontosixmenwhosebackswereagainstacargocontainer.All
sixwereunconsciousandboundwithnylonrope.

“Tellme,”Gordonsaid.

“Wegotacall,anonymous,”thecopsaid.“Foundacokeshipmentinthecontainerworthmaybefour

milonthestreet.”

Gordongesturedtothemenontheground.“Theseguys?”

“I’mnotsure,Sergeant.MaybeFalcone’smen?”

Gordonshrugged.“Doesitmatter?We’llnevertiethemtohimanyway.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” The cop pointed at a harbor light, normally used to help ships

navigatethenarrowentrancetothepiersatnight.Itsbeamhadbeenredirectedfromthewaterandwas
shiningintothesky.CarmineFalcone,unconscious,wasstrappedtoit,hisarmsspread,hiscoatripped
andhangingfromhisarms;Falcone’sshadowwascastontotheclouds.

“Lookslikeabigbat,”thecopsaid.

“Cuthimdown,”Gordonsaid.

Heneededtimetothink.Hestartedbacktowardhiscar.TworeportersfromtheTimestriedtoblock

hiswayandaphotographerranpasthim.

“SergeantGordon,”oneofthereporterscalled,extendingasmalltaperecorder.

“Notnow,”Gordongrowled.

A block away, he saw something blowing from the side of a building. A black flag? No, a man

wearingacape,perchedonaledge,watching...

Racheldidnotwantanotheradventureinthemonorailparkinglot,atleastnotrightaway,sothenext
morning she drove her car all the way into downtown Gotham and spent about a third of what she
wouldearnthatdaytoparkinaprivategarage.Leavingthegarage,sheglancedaroundnervouslyand,
insideherpurse,grippedtheTaser.

No,shetoldherself.Iftheyscareyou,theywin.

ShereleasedtheTaserandsaunteredon.

Outside her office, she dropped two quarters into a machine and grabbed a copy of the Gotham

Times.Shepausedtoscanthefrontpage,andthengrinned.

Tenminuteslater,shedroppedthepaperontoherboss’sdeskandgrinnedagainasshewatchedFinch

takeinthepictureofFalconestrappedtotheharborlight.

“Nowaytoburyitnow,”Rachelsaid.

Finchraisedhiseyes.“Maybeso,butthere’sJudgeFaden...”

“I’vegotFadencovered.”

“Andthis‘bat’they’rebabblingabout...”

“Even if these guys’ll swear in court to being thrashed by a giant bat . . . we have Falcone at the

scene.Drugs.Prints.Cargomanifests.Thisbatcharactergaveuseverything.”

Finchstraightenedtheknotinhistieandsaid,“Well,then.Let’sgetfrying.”

At that moment, a block away, in the fortress-like stone edifice that housed Gotham Central Police
Headquarters, Commissioner Loeb was holding up the Gotham Times and shouting to a conference
roomfullofcaptains,sergeants,andlieutenants,includingJamesGordon.

“Unacceptable.Idon’tcareifit’srivalgangs,GuardianAngels,ortheSalvationArmy,getthemoff

thestreetandoffthefrontpage.”

AcaptainnamedSimonsonsaid,“Theysayitwasonlyoneguy...orthing.”

“Somenutcaseinacostume,”Flassadded.

Gordonraisedhishand.“Thisguydiddelivertousoneofthecity’sbiggestcrimelords.”

Loebglaredathim.“Noonetakesthelawintotheirownhandsinmycity,understand?”

Everyonenoddedsolemnly.

Alfred Pennyworth pulled open the curtains on the window of Wayne Manor’s master bedroom. The
afternoonsunshoneonthebedandthemanlyinginit.

BruceWayneblinkedandsaid,“Batsarenocturnal.”

“Bats,perhaps,”Alfredsaid.“Butevenforbillionaireplayboys,threeo’clockispushingit.Theprice

ofleadingadoublelife,Ifear.”

Alfredpickedupatrayfromasideboardandsetitdownonatablenexttothebed.Onitwasahealth

shake,abunchofgrapes,anorange,asmallknife,andthatday’sGothamTimes.

Alfred unfolded the paper and displayed the photo of Falcone strapped to the light. “Your theatrics

madequiteanimpression.”

Brucelookedatthephoto.“Theatricsanddeceptionarepowerfulweapons,Alfred.It’sastart.”

Hethrewasidethebedding,rose,andstretched.

Alfred peered at the bruises on Bruce’s bare chest and arms. “If those are to be the first of many

injuries...itwouldbewisetofindasuitableexcuse.Polo,forinstance.”

“I’mnotlearningpolo,Alfred.”

“Strangeinjuries,anonexistentsociallife...thesethingsbegthequestionofwhat,exactly,Bruce

Waynedoeswithhistime.Andhismoney.”

Brucesippedfromthehealthshake.“Whatdoessomeonelikemedo?”

“Drivessportscars,datesfilmactresses...Buysthingsthataren’tforsale.”

“Uhhuh.”Bruceputtheglassontothetrayandwithoutpausingdroppedtotherugandbegandoing

push-ups,twopersecond.

“Economyofeffort?”

Withoutstoppinghispush-ups,Brucereplied,“Notagoodideatowasteanything,includingeffort.”

“Youlearnedthatabroad?”

“Amongmanyotherusefulthings.”

Alfred watched him for a while and then said, “Enjoyment was obviously not one of them. If you

startpretendingtohavefun,youmightevenhavealittlebyaccident.”

“Youthink?”

That afternoon, Bruce backed a rented Chrysler into an airport fence. He told the security men that
somehowhehadlostcontrolofthedarnthingandthathewasjustbackfromMountTamalpaisandhad
theyeverbeentotheWestCoast?

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

twasonlysevenforty-fiveinthemorningandalreadyWilliamEarlewashavingabadday.Hehad

lostabundlewhenovernighttheTokyomarketsnosedived,hisespressomachinewasonthefritz,and
hehadadull,throbbingacheinhistemples.

ThenBarryMcFralandbustledintohisofficeandthingsgotworse.

McFralandplantedhimselfinfrontofEarle’sdeskandblurted,“Wehaveasituation.”

“Whatkindofsituation?”

McFralandploppeddowninachairandscooteditclosetothedesk.“TheCoastGuardpickedupone

ofourcargoshipslastnight.Heavilydamaged.Crewmissing,probablydead.”

“Whathappened?”

“Theshipwascarryingaprototypeweapon.Amicrowaveemitter.”

“Whichdoeswhat,exactly?Cookfrozenpizza?”

McFralandutteredasingleha,acknowledginghisboss’sjokebutnotreallylaughing,andcontinued.

“It’sdesignedfordesertwarfare.Itusesfocusedmicrowavestovaporizetheenemy’swatersupply.”

“And?”

“Itlookslikesomeonefireditup.”

“Whatcausedthedamage?”

“Theexpansionofwaterintosteamcreatedanenormouspressurewaveandeverythingexploded—

pipes,boilers,drains...”

“Where’stheweapon?”

“That’sthereallybadpart.It’smissing.”

Bruce Wayne guided his Lamborghini Murcielago into the semicircular driveway of Puccio’s, a
restaurant that occupied the top floor of the Gotham Arms. His turn was too wide and the car’s right
tires went onto the curb and knocked over a potted plant. He jolted to a stop at the valet’s station. A
uniformedattendantopenedthedriver’sdoorandBruceemerged.

“Theyreallyoughttomakethesedriveswider,”hesaid.

“Yessir,Mr.Wayne,”theattendantsaid.“Nicecar.”

“Yououghttoseemyotherone.”

AnotherattendantopenedthepassengerdoorandtwoyoungwomenwhocalledthemselvesKikiand

Soozegotout.Theywerepetite,onebrunetteandoneblond,spike-heeled,andbothwerewearingvery
shortfloral-printdresses.

Kiki took Bruce’s left arm while Sooze took his right and the trio entered the building through a

revolvingdoordedicatedtoPuccio’sclienteleandwentupamodernglasselevator.Theyrodeuptothe
fortieth floor and stepped into a glittering place of white linen, crystal, and silver tableware, and the
aromaofrichlysauceddishes.Floor-to-ceilingwindowsgavethedinersaviewofdowntownGotham
City’smillionsoflights.Asculpturedfountainwithapoolatitscenterranalongonewholesideofthe
establishment.Therewasalowmurmurofconversationandtheplinkofspoonsandforksagainstchina.

Atuxedoedmaîtred’ledBruce,Kiki,andSoozetoWilliamEarle’stable,wheredinnerwasalready

underway.

Earleandfourotherpeople,twomenandtwowomen,werealreadyenjoyingtheirappetizers.

Brucesmiledahelloasheandthetwowomensat.

There was an animated conversation already in progress between an expensively dressed, middle-

agedmanandthemuchyoungerwomanwhowasobviouslyhiswife.Forseveralminutes,Brucejoined
the chitchat, which eventually turned to the crime situation in Gotham and the mysterious vigilante
newlyarrivedinthecity.Everyoneexcepttheyoungwifeseemedtothinkthatthismaskeddo-gooder
wasanutcase.

“Well,hemaybe...unorthodox,”theyoungwifesaid.“Butatleasthe’sgettingsomethingdone.”

“Bruce,helpmeouthere,”herhusbandsaid.

“Aguywhodressesuplikeabatclearlyhasissues,”Brucesaid.

“ButheputFalconebehindbars,”theyoungwifeprotested.

“Andnowthecopsaretryingtobringhimin,”thehusbandsaid.“Whatdoesthattellyou?”

“They’rejealous?”thewifeaskedsweetly.

AsBruceandtheotherdinnerguestsconversed,KikiandSoozequietlyleftthetableandheadedto

the fountain. The two women slipped out of their dresses and lowered themselves, giggling, into the
pool.

Thehorrifiedmaîtred’hurriedtowardBruce.“Sir,thepoolisfordecorationand...yourfriendsdo

nothaveswimwear.”

“Well,they’reEuropean,”Bruceexplained.

The maître d’ looked around, as though seeking help, and said, “I’m going to have to ask you to

leave.”

Brucetookacheckbookfromaninnerpocket,uncappedagoldfountainpen,andbeganwriting.

“It’snotaquestionofmoney,”themaîtred’protested.

Brucetoreacheckfromthebookandgaveittothemaîtred’.“Takethistoyourboss.Ijustbought

thishotel—andasofnow,I’mmakingsomenewrulesaboutthepoolarea.”

Asthewaiterstaredatthecheck,Brucewalkedtothepool.KikiandSoozegrabbedhisjacketand

pulledhiminbesidethem.

Later,dressedinrobestheyhadgottenfromoneofthehotel’sshops,theirhairstillwet,Bruce,Kiki,
andSoozepresentedthemselvesatthevaletstation.

“Bruce?”someonecalled.

BruceturnedandsawRachelbythecabstand.Shewaswearingacocktaildress,hershouldersbare,

andlookedstunning.

“Hello,Rachel,”Brucesaid.

“Iheardyouwereback.”RachellookedatBruce’srobe.“Whatareyoudoing?”

“Just...swimming.It’sgoodtoseeyou.”

“Youweregonealongtime.”

“Iknow.Howarethingswithyou?”

“Thesame.Thejob’sgettingworse.”

“Youcan’tchangetheworldonyourown.”

“No.Iguessnot.ButwhatchoicedoIhave?You’rebusyswimming.”

Bruceloweredhisheadandspokeinanearwhisper.“Rachel,allthis...it’snotallIam.Inside,I’m

different.”

AnattendantparkedtheLamborghiniatthecurb.

“Comeon,Brucie,”Kikicalled,stampingherfoot.“Wehavemorehotelsforyoutobuy.”

Rachel started to walk away. She stopped, looked back at Bruce, and said, “Deep, deep down, you

maybethesamegreatlittlekidyouusedtobe...butit’snotwhoyouareunderneath—it’swhatyou
dothatdefinesyou.”

BrucegotintotheLamborghiniandtoldKikiandSoozethatmaybethey’dbettermakeanearlynight

ofit.

Rachel’snightwasruined.Forjustamoment,shethoughtthatmaybetherewassomehopeforBruce.
Forjustamoment,hewasagrown-upversionoftheearnestchildshehadknownsolongago.Thenhe
revertedtobeingsomeoneshewouldcrossthestreettoavoid.

Sheglancedatherwatch.Whatshisname . . . her date—was he an investment banker?—something

likethat...Heshouldhavebeenhereahalfhourago.She’dgivehimanotherfiveminutes.

At nine the next morning, Dr. Jonathan Crane unfolded his long, lanky body from the front seat of a
LincolnTownCar,gotabriefcasefromthebackseat,andcrossedanasphaltlottothefrontgateofthe
Gotham County Jail. The man inside the guardhouse peered at him through the Plexiglas window.
Recognizing him, the guard buzzed Crane in. He went past another guardhouse, was buzzed through
anotherdoor,andwasmetjustinsidethemainbuildingbythewarden.

“Dr.Crane,thankyouforcomingdown,”thewardensaid.

“Notatall.Sohecuthiswrists?”

“Probablylookingforaninsanityplea,butifanythinghappened...”

Cranepattedthewarden’sshoulder.“Ofcourse.Bettersafethansorry.”

SheescortedCranethroughaseriesofbarreddoorstoanarrowchamberdeepinsidethejail.

“Wouldyoulikemetostay?”thewardenasked.

“Thatwon’tbenecessary,”Cranerepliedwithanotherreassuringpat.“Thetherapeuticprocessisbest

conductedinprivate.”

Shehesitated.“Iguessit’llbeokay...Ifanythinghappens,holler.Aguard’llbewithinearshot.”

CraneenteredtheroomandsatataMasonitetableacrossfromCarmineFalcone.Falconehelduphis

bandagedwristsandsmiled.

“Oh,poorme,Dr.Crane,”hewhined.“It’salltoomuch,thewallsareclosingin,blahblahblah.”He

laughedandinhisnormalvoicecontinued.“Couplemoredaysofthisfoodit’llbetrue.”

Craneleanedforward.“Whatdoyouwant?”

“Iwannaknowhowyou’regonnaconvincemetokeepmymouthshut.”

“Aboutwhat?Youdon’tknowanything.”

“Well,yeah,Ido.Forinstance,Iknowyouwouldn’twantthecopstakingacloserlookatthedrugs

theyseized.Iknowaboutyourexperimentsontheinmatesatyournuthouse.Idon’tgetintobusiness
withsomeonewithoutfindingouttheirdirtysecrets.Thosegoonsyouhired...listen,Iownthemuscle
inthistown.”

Now it was Falcone who leaned forward, until his eyes were inches from Crane’s. “I’ve been

smugglingyourstuffinformonths,sowhateverhe’sgotplanned,it’sbig.AndIwantin.”

CranecontemplatedFalconeandsighed.“Ialreadyknowwhathe’llsay.Thatweshouldkillyou.”

“Evenhecan’ttouchmeinhere.Notinmytown.”

“There’ssomethingI’dlikeyoutosee.”

Crane placed his briefcase on the table between them and pulled from it an odd contraption: a

breathingapparatusattachedtoapieceofburlapwitheye-holescutinit.“Iuseitinmyexperiments.
Probablynotveryfrighteningtoaguylikeyou.Butthosecrazies...”

Falconeshiftedinhischairandinchedawayfromthetable.Cranepulledthemaskoverhishead;he

lookedlikeheshouldbestandinginacornfieldsomewhere.

Falconesneered.“Whendidthenuttakeovertheasylum?”

ApuffofsmokerosefromCrane’sbriefcaseandwaftedintoFalcone’sface.Falconecoughed.

“Theyscreamandcry,”Cranesaid.“Muchasyou’redoingnow.”

AndFalconebeganscreaming.Hestaredwide-eyedatCrane,screamingandcrying.

AguardraninbrandishingaclubasCranewasputtingthemaskbackintohisbriefcase.“Dr.Crane,

areyouallright?”

“Yes,butI’mafraidheisn’t.”CranegesturedtoFalcone,whowascurledintoafetalpositionbeneath

thetable.“Itlookslikeatotalpsychoticbreakdown.”

“Youthinkhe’sfaking?”

Cranemovedpasttheguardandsaid,“No,nofaking.Notthatone.You’dbetterputhimsomeplace

where he can’t hurt himself. I’ll talk to a judge, see if I can’t get him moved to the secure wing of
Arkham.Ican’ttreathimhere.”

HeatlightninglitthehorizonandacoolbreezesweptdownthealleybehindJamesGordon’sapartment.
Gordon,asackofgarbageinhishand,pausedtolookthroughthekitchenwindowathiswifeBarbara,
whowascoaxingtheiryoungdaughtertoeat.Thunderrolledfromtheskyandlightningflashedagain.

“Storm’scoming.”

GordonimmediatelyrecognizedthevoiceandturnedtoseeBatmancrouchedonthefireescape.

“Thescum’sgettingjumpybecauseyoustooduptoFalcone,”Gordonsaid,liftingthegarbage-can

lid.

“It’sastart,”Batmansaid.“YourpartnerwasatthedockswithFalcone.”

“Hemoonlightsasalow-levelenforcer.”

“Theyweresplittingtheshipmentintwo.Onlyhalfwasgoingtothedealers.”

“Why?Whatabouttheotherhalf?”

“Flassknows.”

“Maybe.Buthewon’ttalk.”

“He’lltalktome,”Batmansaid.

“CommissionerLoebsetupamassivetaskforcetocatchyou.Hethinksyou’redangerous.”

“Whatdoyouthink?”

Gordondroppedhissackintothecanandreplacedthelid.“Ithinkyou’retryingtohelp...”

Hewastalkingtohimself.Batmanwasgone.

“...ButI’vebeenwrongbefore.”

Afewminuteslater,therainbegantosweepacrossthedocks,whereDistrictAttorneyCarlFinchwas
walkingbesideamaninbeigeoveralls,checkingthetagsofshippingcontainerswithflashlights.

TheystoppedbeforeaparticularlylargecontainerandFinchsaid,“ThisistheoneI’mtalkingabout.”

“What’syourproblemwithit?”thedockworkerasked.

“Itshouldn’texist.ThisshipleftSingaporewith246containersandarrivedwith247.I’mguessing

there’ssomethingI’mnotsupposedtofindinthere.”

ThemaninoverallswinkedatFinch.“Lissen,Counselor,weknowthewaythingsworkinthistown.

Youandme—wedon’twannaknowwhat’sinMr.Falcone’scrates.”

Finchglaredattheman.“Thingsareworkingdifferentlynow.Openit.”

The man in overalls shrugged and pulled the container door open. Finch swept the inside with his

flashlight beam and saw what looked like some kind of industrial machine the size of a small
refrigerator.

“What the hell is this thing?” he asked and then was struck in the back by a bullet. He fell to the

ground,dead.

The man in overalls put a .25-caliber automatic back in his pocket. He grabbed Finch’s ankles and

draggedthebodyintothecontainer.

By nine, rain was falling throughout Gotham and the suburbs. Most of the city’s street workers had
givenupforthenightandgonehome,orwerehuddledsomewherehopingthestormwouldend.Butin
thetheaterdistrict,onefoodstandhadremainedopenandthere,underitscanopy,Flassstuffedafalafel
intohismouth,halfchewedit,andswallowed.Bowinghishead,helefttheshelterofthecanopyand

ranintothepeltingrain.Heturnedacornerandcontinuedrunningdownanarrowalleyway.

Suddenly something looped around him and he was no longer standing on the pavement; he was

beinglifted.Hestoppedwhenhisfacewasinchesfromablackmask.Hethenrealizedthatthemasked
manwasholdinghimbytheankle,aboutfortyfeetabovetheconcrete.

“Whereweretheotherdrugsgoing?”

“Idon’tknow,”Flassgasped.

Batmanreleased Flass andthe cop droppedtwenty feet. His screamwas lost ina crack of thunder.

Thewirethatloopedaroundhimhaltedhisfall.Batmanpulledhimbackup.

“Ineverknew,”Flasswhispered.“Shipmentswenttosomeguyforacoupledaysbeforetheywentto

dealers...”

“Why?”

“Therewassomethingelseinthedrugs,somethinghidden.”

“What?”

“Idon’tknow...Ineverwenttothedrop-off.It’sintheNarrows...copsonlygothereinforce...”

Batman released his hold on Flass. Flass dropped quickly and jerked to a sudden stop just inches

from the ground. Then Batman gently lowered him to the ground and disappeared, leaving Flass
speechless.

LikeeveryoneelseinGothamCityBruceWayneknewaboutthearealocalscalled“theNarrows.”But,
likemostwholiveduptown,orinthesuburbs,hehadnevervisitedtheneighborhood,anislandinthe
middleoftheGothamRiverwithaninsaneasylumatoneendandalabyrinthofdilapidatedpublic
housingattheother,accessibleonlybythreebridgesandatunnel.BruceWaynewouldhaveno
businessintheNarrows.ButBatman—thatwassomethingelse.

It was early evening by the time he got there and the rain had increased to a heavy and constant

downpour. He entered the housing project grounds by climbing over a chain-link fence and glided to
oneofthesevenbleak,boxlikestructuresthatwerecrammedwithmen,women,andchildren—families
of up to ten surviving in tiny, three-room apartments with leaky pipes, peeling paint, and long, dark,
treacherouscorridors.Batmancaughtthebottomrungofafire-escapeladderandbeganclimbing.He
haltedatafourth-floorwindowandtookfromabeltcompartmentasmallviewerequippedwithanight-
vision lens. He lay on his back below the window and angled the periscope to see into the apartment
beyond.Inthegreenishnightlenshesawthattheplacewasemptyexceptforafewboxesandalarge
pileofstuffedrabbits.

Fromthenextapartment,heheardshoutsofanger.Alittleboyopenedthewindowandcreptoutonto

thefire-escapeplatform.Intheambientlightfrominsidetheapartment,Batmancouldseethattheboy,
who was about eight, had a smear of grime across his forehead and what looked like a bruise on his
cheek.Hisclothingwastorn,hisblondhairunrulyandfallinginacowlickoverhisforehead.

Alongwayfromwhatscrubbed,pampered,adoredBruceWaynelookedlikeatthatage...

“You’reheretogetthatguy?”theboyasked.

“IguessIam.”

“Theyalreadytookhim.Tothehospital.”

Frominsidetheboy’sapartmentcameawoman’sshrillvoice.“Getyourassbackinhere.”

“Theotherkidswon’tbelieveIsawyou,”theboysaid.

Batmanhandedtheviewertotheboy.“It’syours.”

Before the boy could thank him, Batman lifted the window to the empty apartment and climbed

inside. He took one of the stuffed rabbits from the pile. It had been ripped open. As Batman was
examiningit,therewasanoiseatthedoor.Hemeltedbackintotheshadows.

Thedooropened,andintheglowfromthehallway,BatmansawJonathanCraneandtwoothermen

enter.

Cranepointedtothepileofstuffedrabbits.“Getridofalltraces.”

“Better torch the whole place,” one of the men said. He took a bottle of amber liquid from a coat

pocketandpoureditonthetoys.Theairwassuddenlyfilledwiththepungentodorofgasoline.

Cranehadmovedtotheopenwindowandlookedoutontothefireescape.

“Waitaminute,”themanwiththegasolinesaid.“Igottatakealeak.”

He went into the bathroom, switched on the light, and glanced into the cracked mirror over the

washbasin.Whathesawmadehimopenhismouthtoyell—

Batmansmashedhimintothemirrorandashewasbumpingagainstthebasinandfallingtothefloor,

Batmanwasalreadymovingtothebathroomdoor.Therehemetthesecondmanandtookhimout.

BatmanshovedpastthefallingmantoconfrontCrane,whohaddonnedaburlapmask.Craneraised

his hand and a tiny cloud of smoke puffed from his sleeve. Instinctively, Batman turned his head to
avoidinhalingitandleapedatCrane.TherewasasecondpuffofsmokeandthistimeBatmanbreathed
partofitinandchoked...

. . . and the Batman who was Bruce who was a child at the bottom of a well was not looking at a

funnymaninafunnymask,ohno,notnow,notanymore—hewasseeingamonstercoughedupfrom
hellwithflamingeyesandlongtentaclesspinning,spinning,spinning,spinning...

“Stopthespinning!”Wasthathisvoice,yellinglikethat?

Batmanstaggered,shookhishead.Hehadtomakethevisiongoaway.Somehow.

Crane smashed a bottle over Batman’s head. Amber liquid trickled over his mask and the reek of

gasolinestunghisnostrils.Batmangaspedandcoughed.

...thegasolinestinkcongealedintoanotherhell-spawnedmonsterwithgapingjaws...

Thewindow.Maybesalvationlayoutside,intheair,intherain.Ifonlyhecouldgettothewindow.

Thewindowshouldbeeasytoreach.Thewindowwasonlyafewstepsaway.

...buttheroomwassuddenlymileslongandthewindowwasrecedingintothehorizon...

...andbatswereexplodingfromadarkcrevice...

Cranewasholdingupacheapplasticlighter.

“Needalight?”heinquiredpleasantly,andflickedthewheel.Whenataperedflamesproutedfrom

thetopofthelighter,hetosseditatBatman.

GasolineignitedandBatmanwasswathedinfire.

Thewindow!

...nomatterhowfarawayitis,gottoreachthewindow...

Batmanclosedhiseyesandflunghimselfatwhereheknewthewindowhadtobe.Hefeltsomething

crackandheardglassbreakingandknewhewasonthefireescape.Hismomentumcarriedhimforward
andheflippedovertherailingand,capetrailingflame,hefell.Hepressedastudinhiscowlandthe
cape popped open and became rigid—a wing. No, only half a wing; fire had damaged the other side.
Stillblazing,hespiraledoutanddown,thedamagedpartofthewingflapping—

Hisfallwasbrokenbyacar.Ashisflamingbodystruckthevehicle,hefellthroughtheroofintothe

rear of the car. The heavy rain had extinguished the flames. He lay, gasping for breath, mentally
scanninghisbody,seekingbrokenbones.None:notthathecoulddetect.Heworkedhiswayoutofthe
wreckageofthecarandstruggledtoregainhisbalance.

Twomen,handsinpockets,approached.

“Hey,waitupaminute,gotsomethingtoshowyou,”onecalledinasingsongvoice.

Batmansteppedintothelightofastreetlamp—agaunt,blackfigurewithsmokerisingfromit.

“Nevermind,”themansaid,andheandhiscompanionran.

Batman limped into an alley and from his utility belt pulled out a tiny phone. He pressed a button,

andinahoarsewhispersaid,“Alfred?”

Fortyminuteslater,BatmanlaysprawledontherearseatofAlfred’sBentleyasAlfredturnedtoward

themanor.Thesmellofscorchedfabricfilledthecar.

“We’llbehomesoon,”Alfredsaid,puttingthecarintogear.

Batmanpulledoffhismask.“Bloodpoisoned,”hewhispered.

...andthecarwasfilledwithbats,screeching,tearing...

Heknewtheycouldnotberealbutalsoknew,absolutely,thattheywere.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

ruceopenedhiseyes.HewasinWayneManor’smasterbedroomandAlfredwassittingnexttothe

bed.

“HowlongwasIout?”Bruceasked,almostnotrecognizingthehoarseraspthatwashisvoice.

“Twodays.It’syourbirthday.We’rehavingaparty,remember?”

Brucesatup,liftedaglassofwaterfromthenight-stand,andquicklydrainedit.“Itwassomekindof

weaponized hallucinogen administered in aerosol form. I’ve felt something similar before. If I’d
breathedinawholelungful...”

“Youaredefinitelyhangingoutatthewrongclubs,”saidafamiliarvoice.Bruceturned;LuciusFox

wassittingnearthewindow,hislegscrossed,anamusedlittlesmileonhisface.

“IcalledMr.Foxwhenyourconditionworsenedafterthefirstday,”Alfredexplained.

“Ianalyzedyourblood,isolatingthereceptorcompoundsandprotein-basedcatalysts,”Foxsaid.

“AmImeanttounderstandallthat?”Bruceasked.

“No,Ijustwantyoutoknowhowharditwas.Bottomline,Isynthesizedanantidote.”

“Couldyoumakemore?”

“Planningongassingyourselfagain?”

“You know how it is, Mr. Fox. You’re out on the town, looking for kicks . . . someone’s passing

aroundtheweaponizedhallucinogens...”

Foxstood.“I’llbringyouwhatIhave,buttheantidoteshouldserveasaninoculationfornow.”He

noddedtoAlfred.“Alfred,alwaysapleasure.I’llseemyselfout.”

AfterFoxleft,AlfreddrewthecurtainsandadvisedBrucetogetmoresleep.

Brucesleptforanothertwohours.Thenhearoseandshowered.Hishairwasaproblem;thestinkof

burninggasolinethatclungtoitwasstubborn.Butafterseveralshampoos,thesmellabated.Brucewent
intothebedroomandwasputtingonadressinggownwhenheheardthefrontdoorbellring.Hewentto
thetopofthestairsandlookeddownatthefrontdoor.AlfredwasspeakingtoRachel.

“Areyousureyouwon’tcomein?”Alfredwasasking.“Theotherguestsshouldbearrivingshortly.”

“I have to get back,” Rachel said, and extended a small, gift-wrapped package to Alfred. “I just

wantedtoleavethis.”

BrucedescendedthestepsandcalledRachel’sname.Shelookedathimandfrowned.Heknewhow

heappeared:hairtousled,eyesred,unsteadyonhisfeet.

“Lookslikesomeone’sbeenburningthecandleatbothends,”Rachelsaid.“Musthavebeenquitean

occasion.”

“Well,itismybirthday.”

“Iknow.Iwasjustdroppingoffyourpresent.”

BruceheardaringingsoundcomingfromRachel’sshoulderbag.

“Excuse me,” she said. She pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it. “Rachel Dawes.” A pause.

“What?Whoauthorizedthat?GetCranethererightnowanddon’ttakenoforananswer.AndcallDr.
Lehmann—we’llneedourownassessmentonthejudge’sdeskbymorning.”

Rachelstuffedthephonebackintoherbag.Shedidnotlookhappy.

“What’swrong?”Bruceasked.

“It’sFalcone.Dr.CranemovedhimtoArkhamAsylumonsuicidewatch.”

“You’regoingtoArkhamnow?It’sintheNarrows,Rachel.”

“Youhaveyourselfagreattime.Someofushaveworktodo.Happybirthday,Bruce.”

Sheraceddownthewalk,gotintohersmallcar,andspedaway.

BrucefoundAlfredinthedininghallnearatableheapedhighwithwrappedgifts.“CanIseewhat

Rachelleft?”

“Certainly,sir,”AlfredsaidandhandedBruceasmallboxwrappedingoldfoil.

Bruceremovedthewrappingandtookthelidofftheboxandfoundhimselflookingatsomethinghe

hadnotseensincehewaseightyearsold.Anarrowheadlayonacushionofwhitecottonacrossaslip
ofpaperwiththewords“finder’skeepers”handwrittenonit.

“Ihaveanerrandtorun,”hesaid.

“But,MasterBruce,theguestswillbearrivingshortly.”

“KeepthemhappyuntilIarrive.Tellthemthatjokeyouknow.”

Brucestrodeintothestudyandtothebiggrandpianoinacorneroftheroom.Hehitfournotesanda

large, ornate mirror swung forward to reveal a doorway behind it. This second entry to the cave was
Alfred’s idea and it was a good one. Bruce passed through it and went down a stone staircase. He
arrived at a landing and a spiral staircase with a dumbwaiter in its center. He stepped onto the
dumbwaiter and tugged a lever. The dumbwaiter plummeted down and, with a rattling of chains,
stoppedatthebottomofthestairs.Brucesteppedoutofitandintothecave.Hewenttoawardrobe.
TheBatmancostumewasinside,aphantomthatseemedtobestaringathim.

As William Earle hurried down the lowest corridor in Wayne Tower, he was speaking into his cell
phone: “. . . Oh, and, Jessica, I’ve got to attend the Wayne party. I guess I’d better bring a gift. Get
something nice. He’d probably like a blond, but make it respectable. Silverware or something. You
know—expensive.”

Earlepassedthroughthedoormarked

APPLIEDSCIENCES

andsawLuciusFoxmanipulatingaboxwith

screensanddials.FoxwasabsorbedinwhateveritwasthathewasdoinganddidnothearEarlecome
in.

Earleclearedhisthroat.“Havingfun?”

Foxswiveledhischairaround.“Bill.What’sabigshotlikeyoudoinginaplacelikethis?”

“HasWaynebeenaroundmuch?”

“Inandout.Nicekid.”

“Forgetaboutkissinghisasstogetbacktotheexecutivesuite,Lucius.Despitehisname,he’sonlyan

employee.”

“Youcameallthewaydownheretotellmethat?”

Earle shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. “Actually, I need information. The Wayne

Enterprisesforty-sevenB1-ME.”

Foxscootedhischairclosetohisdeskandbegantypingathiscomputer’skeyboard.Afteraminute,

hesaid,“Hereitis.Amicrowavetransmitter...designedtovaporizeanenemy’swatersupply.”

“Iknowallthat.Anyotherapplications?”

Foxrubbedhischinwiththebackofhishand.“Well,asIrecall,rumorwas,theytesteddispersing

water-basedchemicalagentsintotheair.Butthatwouldbeillegal,wouldn’tit?Andyouwouldn’tbe
interestedinanythingillegal.”

“Cutthecrap,Fox.Ineedeverythingontheprojectdevelopmentuptomyofficerightaway.”

Earlemovedtowardthedoor.

“Whathappened?”Foxasked.“Youloseone?”

Earlestoppedandturned.“Bytheway,I’mmergingAppliedScienceswithArchiving,”hesaidina

monotone and then chuckled. “You’re at the top of the list for early retirement. Didn’t you get the
memo?”

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

ighthadfallenbythetimeRachelDawesguidedhercaroffthebridgeandontotheislandknownas

theNarrows.Shedroveslowly,tryingtoavoidthemanypotholesthatmadesomeGothamiteslikenthe
areatothesurfaceofthemoon.Lightwasvirtuallynonexistent;therewerefewstreetlamps.Thosethat
did exist were never serviced when they broke or burned out. The moon was no more than a dim
smudge behind clouds. Rachel stopped in front of the sprawling architectural monstrosity that housed
the famous—some said infamous—Arkham Asylum: high windowless walls and steep roofs. Rachel
shuddered at the thought of entering this nightmare, but parked her car and walked through the front
dooranyway.

She spoke to a guard at a security desk, and a minute later a white-clad nurse with orange hair

escortedherintothepatients’wing.

RachelsawDr.Craneapproachingfromtheotherendofthecorridor.

“Ms.Dawes,”Cranesaid,“thisismostirregular.I’venothingtoaddtothereportofMr.Falcone’s

conditionthatIfiledwiththejudge.”

Rachelmethisgazeandsaid,“Well,Ihavequestionsaboutyourreport.”

“Suchas,”Cranesaidinthetoneoftheunjustlyvictimized.

“Suchas,isn’titconvenientforafifty-two-year-oldmanwithnohistoryofmentalillnesstohavea

completepsychoticbreakdownjustwhenhe’sabouttobeindicted?”

Crane gestured to a wire-reinforced window that looked in on a cell. In it, Carmine Falcone was

strappedtoabed,staringattheceiling,hislipsmoving.

“Youcanseeforyourself,Ms.Dawes...there’snothingdelusionalabouthissymptoms.”

“What’shesaying?”Rachelasked.

“Scarecrow,”theorange-hairednursevolunteered.

“What’s‘scarecrow?’”

NowCraneadoptedthemannerofaprofessorlecturingaparticularlydenseclass.“Patientssuffering

delusional episodes often focus their paranoia onto an external tormentor, usually one conforming to
Jungianarchetypes.Inthiscase,ascarecrow.”

RachellookedatFalcone.“He’sdrugged?”

Cranenodded.“Psychopharmacologyismyprimaryfield.I’mastrongadvocate.Outside,hewasa

giant.Inhere,onlythemindcangrantyoupower.”

“Youenjoythereversal.”

“I respect the mind’s power over the body. It’s why I do what I do—ultimately, I’m just trying to

help.”

“IdowhatIdotoputscumlikeFalconebehindbars,notintherapy,”Rachelsaid,lettingangerinto

hervoice.“IwantmyownpsychiatricconsultanttohavefullaccesstoFalcone,includingbloodworkto
findoutexactlywhatyouhavehimon.”

“Firstthingtomorrow,then.”

“Tonight.I’vealreadypagedDr.Lehmann.”

“Wouldyoualsoliketoinspectourfacilities,Ms.Dawes?”

“Itwouldn’thurt.”

“Followme.”CraneledRacheltoanelevatordoor,whichheopenedwithakey.OnceinsideRachel

felt them descending three floors, she guessed—and when the doors again opened they exited into a
long,dimcorridor.Rachelshivered,bothbecausetheplacewaschillyandbecauseitwassocreepy—a
horrorofdrippingpipesandgrotesqueshadows.

...Iftheyscareyou,theywin...

Crane, with Rachel a step behind, paused at a door marked

HYDROTHERAPY

and opened it. Rachel

blinked to adjust her sight to the brightness of the place, a vast room with dozens of stainless-steel
tables on which were scales and aluminum kegs. Workers—asylum inmates?—were busy transferring
whitepowderfromthekegstoclothsacks.Twooftheworkerswerepouringpowderfromabarrelinto
alargeholeinthefloor.Oneofthemstared...notatRachel,butthroughher.Rachelwascertainshe
hadmethimsomewhereandthenherbreathcaughtassherecognizedthemurdererVictorZsasz.

“This is where we make the medicine,” Crane said. “Perhaps you should have some. Clear your

head.”

Hewastalkingtonoone.

If they scare you, they win, yes, but sometimes danger is real and immediate and the only sensible

thingtodoisrun.

Inthecorridor,Rachelstumbled:Damnboots...

Shecontinuedrunningtowardtheelevator.Inside,shepressedthebuttonmarked2.

Nothinghappened.Shejabbedatthebuttonagainandagain.Nothing.Shehitalltheotherbuttons.

Stillnothing.

Someoneappearedintheopendoor,wearingascarecrowmask.

Crane?

“Letmehelpyou,”hesaid.HereachedtowardRachelandasmallpuffofgasshotfromhissleeve.

ThebackofRachel’sthroatstungandshegasped.Shecoughedintoherfistandwhenshelookedup—

...wormsslitheredandfellfromthestitchingofthemask...

Rachelstifledascream.

Twoinmatesdraggedherbacktothehydrotherapyroomandpushedherontooneofthetables.Crane

grabbedherfacebetweenhisthumbandforefingerandforcedhertolookathim.

...wormscrawling...

“Whoknowsyou’rehere?”Wasitthescarecrowtalking?“Whoknows?”

Rachelwrenchedherheadaway.

Suddenlytheywereindarkness.Someonehadkilledthelights.

Cranepulledoffhismaskandsaid,inanawedvoice,“He’shere.”

“Who?”someoneasked.

“TheBatman.”

“Whatdowedo?”

“Whatdoesanyonedowhenaprowlercomesaround?Callthepolice.”

“Youwantthecopshere?”

“Atthispoint,theycan’tstopus.Butthis...Batmanhasatalentfordisruption.Forcehimoutside,

thepolicewilltakehimdown.”

Cranewasfumblingaroundinoneofthetable’sdrawers.Helocatedabattery-operateddoctor’slight

usedtoexamineinmates’eyesiftheyaccidentallygotpowderinthem.Turningiton,hesweptthethin
beamaroundattheinmates.

“Getthemoutofhere.”

“Whatabouther?”oneoftheotherssaid,gesturingtoRachel.

“She’sgone,”Cranesaidwithasatisfiedsmile.“Igaveheraconcentrateddose.Themindcanonly

takesomuch.”

“WhatabouttheBatman?Thethingstheysayabouthim...Iheardhecandisappear.”

“We’llfindout,won’twe?Callthepolice.”

AsBruceWayne,atthemonastery,hehadlearnedtomakeuseofdarkness—anykindofdarkness.He
couldconcealhimselfinshadowsor,ifnecessaryandconditionswereright,hideinplainsight.Noneof
that was necessary here. This ugly monstrosity of a building seemed to radiate its own darkness and
therewerenolightsonthegroundstodispelit.Andthedimmoonwasnoproblem,either.Anelephant
could have tiptoed inside without being seen. But Batman had played it safe and cut the power lines
anyway.Heknew,fromhisearlierresearch,thatnosurgerywasdonethislateatnightandtherewere
noartificiallife-supportsystemsintheasylum,sohewasprobablynotendangeringanyone.Probably.
He couldn’t be certain, not now. Later, he promised himself, he would find ways of being certain in
situationslikethis.

Hehaddescendedfromtheroofandwashalfwaytotheground.Hepaused,andconjuredupamental

pictureoftheasylumschematichehadmemorizedbeforeleavingthecave.Therewasahydrotherapy
room in a sub-basement that seemed to be unused. That might or might not be where Crane and
companywouldtakeRacheliftheymeanttodoherharm,butitwasasgoodaplaceasanytostarthis
search.Hedroppedtothegroundandcrouched.

Thishastobetherightwindow...

Crane had positioned gunmen on either side of the door and the window. They waited, but not for

long.

Someonegroaned.Thesoundcamefromabove,intherafters.

“Shoot!”Cranecommanded.

Theothergunmanfiredupwardblindly.Ablacknessquicklydescendedonhimandhewasquiet.

TherewasthesoundofamuffledblowfromacrosstheroomandCraneknewthatthethirdmanhad

beentakendown.ThenanothermuffledblowandCraneknewhewasalone.

Exceptforthewoman.MaybeRachelcouldbehisaceinthehole.Wherewasshe?Stillonthetable,

probably.Giveheranotherwhiffofthegasasinsurance,then—

Someonegrabbedhim,spunhimaround,andrippedoffhismask.Crane’sarmwaspinnedbetween

hisbodyandBatman—ithadtobeBatman—hisfistagainsthisownchin.Hefeltacompressedairgun
beingtriggeredandrealized,ahalfsecondbeforeapuffofsmokeblewintohisface,whatwasaboutto
happen.

“Howaboutadoseofyourownmedicine,”Batmansaid.HereleasedCraneandthedoctorfelltothe

ground.Batmanhauledhimupbyhiscollarandasked,“Whathaveyoubeendoinghere?Whoareyou
workingfor?”

AsCranetriedtoanswer,hisbreathcameinsharp,staccatogasps.Finally,hemanagedtosay,“Rā’s.

..Rā’s...Rā’salGhūl.”

BatmanpulledCranecloser.“Rā’salGhūlisdead,Crane.I’llaskyouonemoretime...Whoare

youworkingfor?”

But Crane did not, and apparently could not, reply. For almost a minute, he simply stared, and

continued to gasp. Then his breath became normal and he said pleasantly, “Dr. Crane isn’t here right
now,butifyou’dliketomakeanappointment...”

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

atmangavehimselfaquickmentalinventorytodetermineifthepuffofgasfromCrane’ssleevehad

affectedhim.Nothingseemedtobewrong;Fox’santidotewasprovingtobeaneffectivevaccine.He
guessedthatCranewouldnotprovideanyusefulinformationfortheforeseeablefuture.Hewondered
aboutwhatthedoctorhadsaid.

Rā’salGhūl?Whatanoddlietotell.AndhowdidCraneevenknowaboutRā’s?

BatmanreleasedCraneandlethimsinktothefloor.HetookasteptowardRachel,whowaslying

unconsciousonatable.

Fromhisbelt,heremovedatinylightandusedittoexaminetheroom.Therewasalargeholeinthe

floorandseveralemptysacksaroundit.Heshonehisflashlightintoitandsawthecurvedtopofalarge
pipe.Awatermain...hastobe.Otheremptysacks,hundredsofthem,weretossedintothecorners.

Whichaddsuptowhat?

AloudsomethingcamefromoutsidethewindowandBatmanrealizedthathewashearingsomeone

speak,distortedbyabullhornandtheechoingagainsttheoldbuilding.Thesoundcameagainandhe
wasabletodiscernthewords:

“BATMAN.PUTDOWNYOURWEAPONSANDSURRENDER.YOUARESURROUNDED.”

Thespeakerdidnotidentifyhimselfasapoliceman.Hedidnothaveto.BatmanpickedRachelup

andcarriedheroutoftheroom.

Outside,theflashinglightsofadozenpolicecruisersthrewgrotesque,reddishshadowsonthewallsof
the asylum. Behind the open doors of each car stood a uniformed cop, some aiming sidearms, others
withshotguns.

Flassstoodnexttoamaninacaptain’suniform,whowasholdingabullhorn.

“Whatareyourwaitingfor?”Flassdemanded.

“Backup,”thecaptainsaid.

“Backup?”

“Listen,Flass,theBatman’sinthere.SWAT’sontheway.Butifyouwanttogoinnow...Hey,I’ll

berightbehindyou.”

“Well,ifSWAT’sontheway...”

Jim Gordon parked his car at the perimeter of the police cordon, grabbed a flashlight from the glove
compartment,andhurriedtoFlass.

“Iheardaboutitontheradio,”hesaid.“What’sgoingon?”

“Gotacall,saiditwasfrominsidethenuthouse,”Flassreplied.“SomeguysaidBatmanwasloose

insidethere.”

Gordon pushed past Flass and was going through the front entrance of the asylum as a large van

screechedtoahaltandahalf-dozenSWATofficers,carryingrifleswithflashlightsattachedandwearing
flakjacketsandhelmets,spilledontothesidewalk.

Once inside, Gordon felt his way along the walls. He had seen the arrival of the SWAT team and

wantednopartofit.Thoseguyshadtheirorders:apprehend,subdue,useforceifnecessary.Gordon’s
missionwasdifferent:findoutwhatthehellwashappeningandleavethebulletsinsidethegun.

Heheardshoutsandheavyfootfallsbehindhim:theSWATguys,probablyspreadingout,keepingin

contactwithlapelradios.DidhehaveachancetofindtheBatmanbeforetheydid?Well,he’dsoonfind
out.

Inthebriefburstsofredlightfromthepolicecruisersthatwerecomingthroughthewindow,hesaw

an elevator. He pressed the button on the wall next to it. Nothing. No surprise. The radio call he’d
interceptedreportedthattheasylumwaswithoutelectricity.Okay,he’ddoitthehardway.Heswitched
onhisflashlightandbegantoascendastaircasenexttotheelevator,slowly—

—andhewasgrabbedaroundthewaistandpulledoffofhisfeet,rocketingupward.Hestoppedand

wasplacedonalanding,aglovedhandcoveringhismouth.

Below,theSWATguys,riflesandlightsaimedaheadofthem,shoutedandbegantoclimbthesteps.

“Okay, we go higher,” someone said in Gordon’s ear, a low, rasping voice that he recognized

immediately.

IntheambientglowfromtheSWATlights,GordonsawBatmanaimsomekindofgunattherafters.

Batman again circled Gordon’s waist with his arm and triggered the gun. There was a faint hiss and
againGordonwasshootingupward.Justasquickly,theyjoltedtoastop.

Somehow, Gordon had managed to hold on to his flashlight during his ascent. He swept its beam

aroundhimandsawthathewasinsomesortofattic.BatmangraspedGordon’swristandgentlypushed
itdown;Gordon’sbeamshoneonRachelDawes,whowascurledonthefloor,hereyeswide,herlips
movingsoundlessly.

“Whathappenedtoher?”Gordonwhispered.

“Cranepoisonedherwithapsychotropichallucinogen,”Batmansaid.“Apanic-inducingtoxin.”

“Letmegetherdowntothemedics.”

“Theycan’thelpher,butIcan.Ineedtogethertheantidotebeforethedamagebecomespermanent.”

“Howlongdoesshehave?”

“Notlong.GetherdownstairsandmeetmeinthealleyontheNarrowsside.”

“Howwillyougetout?”

Batmanliftedhisheelandpressedit.“Ijustcalledforbackup.”

Batmanglidedtowardawindow,hesitated,thenturnedbacktoGordon.“Somethingsyououghtto

knowincasesomethinghappenstome.CranewasattheNarrows.HewasuptosomethingbeforeIgot
here.

“Doyouknowwhat’sheplanning?”

“No.”

“WasheworkingforFalcone?”

“No.Someoneelse.Maybesomeonefarworse.”

Gordon heard an odd sound coming from beyond the asylum’s walls: a screech melded with what

soundedlikewingsflapping.“What’sthat?”

“Backup,”Batmansaid.

Thecloudshaddissipatedandafullmoonshoneinthesky.That’showFlassfirstsawthem—wiggly
shapescrossingthemoon.Therewereonlyafewatfirst.Flassandsomeofthecopsnoticedthembut
thenignoredthem.Whatwereafewbats?You’dexpecttheminacreepyplacelikethis.Butnowthere
weremorethanafew,alotmore—hundreds,nothousands...Maybeevenmore?Theyflowedinan
unendingstreamfromthenorth,somanytheyalmostconcealedthemoon.Theyflewstraightforthe
buildingandfoundentrancesandflewinside.

“It’shisdoing,”Flasssaidtotheuniformedcaptain.“Can’tbeacoincidence,notbats.Whatkindof

thingishe?”

Insidetheasylum,ablackmass,flappingandscreeching,floodedintothestairwell,pasttheSWAT

teamwhoduckedandcoveredtheirfaceswiththeirforearms,andsoaredupward.

Batmanstoodinthemidstoftheswarm.Theimageofhimselfatthebottomofawellflittedacross

his mind for only a second, but the memory had long ago lost its power to frighten him. He had
originally doubted that this would really work, this summoning of the bats that lived beneath Wayne
Manor.Hehadplannedtotestitlater,buttherewasnoneedforthatnow.Hewassurroundedbyproof
that,yes,thedeviceinhisheelperformedasexpected.

But most of the bats were past the SWAT team and Batman needed them occupied for a minute or

twomore.Hepulledthedeviceloosefromhisbootanddroppeditdownthestairwell.Immediately,the
bats veered and plummeted downward, following the device, and the SWAT guys scattered. Batman
jumpedintothemiddleofthestairwell,almostinvisibleamidtheblackswarm,andopenedhiscloak
into its wing configuration. He landed hard, swayed to get his balance, and as he ran toward the
inmates’quarters,refoldedthecloak.

Hewasnowstandinginacorridorwithbarreddoorsoneitherside.Hetookaminiminefromhisbelt

andthrewitatthenearestdoorlock.Asecondlatertherewasanexplosionandthedoorfellsmokingto
thefloor.Batmanclimbedoverthedoorandenteredthecell.

Henoddedtothetwomenwho,wide-eyed,werecoweringinacornerandsaid,“Excuseme.”

He threw a second mine at the barred window and told the inmates that they’d better cover their

faces.Therewasanotherexplosionandthebarsclatteredontothegroundoutside.

Batmantookthreerunningsteps,leaped,anddovethroughthewindow.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

ordonwassittinginthealleybehindtheasylum,cradlingRachel’shead,whenBatmanemergedfrom

thedarkness.

“Howisshe?”Batmanasked.

BeforeGordoncouldanswer,apolicehelicopterflewpasttheasylumandshoneablindinglybright

searchlightonthem.

BatmanliftedRachel.“I’vegottogetheroutofhere.”

“Takemycar,”Gordonsaid.

“Ibroughtmine,”Batmanrepliedand,stillcarryingRachel,lopedintotheshadowsattheendofthe

alley.

“Yours?”saidGordon.

Afewsecondslater,apairofheadlightslittheareaandGordonheardthelowthrumofapowerful

engine.Theheadlightsmovedandsomethingblackandvaguelyautomotivelurchedforward.Itpicked
upspeedandpassedGordon,headingforthestreet.Apolicecruiserappearedandstopped,blockingthe
exittothealley,andGordoncringed,waitingfordisasterbecausewhateverBatmanwasdrivingdidnot
slow—no,itmovedevenfaster.Anugly,life-takingcollisionseemedinevitable.

Twocopsscrambledfromthecarandran.

Batman’svehiclesmashedintothecopcar,itshugefrontwheelscrushingthehoodandbouncingon

towardthestreet.

Oneofthecopsspokeintoalapelradio.“He’sinavehicle.”

Thereceiversquawked.“Makeandcolor?”

“It’sablack...tank.”

“Tank?”

Batmanturnedontothestreet,north,awayfromtheasylumandthearmyofofficers,andaccelerated
ontothebridge,swervingpastadeliveryvanandasedan,steelmissingsteelbyinches.

Rachelawakenedand,foraminute,shookherheadslowlyasshestrainedagainstherseatbelt,arms

straightbeforeher,handsbracedagainstthedash.

“You’vebeenpoisoned,”Batmantoldher.“Staycalm.”

He touched a stud on the steeling wheel and a screen between him and Rachel brightened. It was

crisscrossedwithlines,somedotted,somesolid.

“Globalpositioningdisplay,”Batmansaid,glancingatit.“Tellsmewhat’sahead.”

Rachel’sbreathwasshallowandharsh.

As Batman was turning onto a freeway ramp, two police cruisers appeared in his rearview mirror,

sirenshowling,redlightsblinking.Batmantouchedanotherstudandastripoftensileplasticstudded
with metal spikes dropped from the rear of his vehicle. The first cruiser’s tires hit the spikes and
exploded. Sparks shooting from its bare wheel rims, it spun and skidded sideways into the second
cruiser.Thehoodsofbothcarspoppedopenandsteambeganrisingfromtheirengines.

Batman’sfingersdancedonarowofbuttonsbeneaththescreenandtheimagesblinkedandchanged.

Rachel’sbreathingcontinuedtobeerratic.

“Breatheslowly,”Batmansaid.“Closeyoureyes.”

“That’sworse,”Rachelgasped.

Batmanlookeddownatthescreen,twistedthesteeringwheel,andleftthefreeway.Hemovedintoan

industrialarea,desertedatthislatehour.

Threecruiserswereblockingtheintersectionaheadofhim.

Batmanslewedintoaturnandintotheentranceofamultilevelparkinggarage.Hisvehiclesmashed

throughtheticketmachineandwoodenbarrierandroareduparamp.

“Whatareyoudoing?”Rachelwhispered.

“Shortcut.”

Batman’s vehicle erupted onto the top level, the roof of the garage. A helicopter, hovering directly

overhead,surroundeditwithacircleoflight.

Batmanbraked,andsmokerisingfromitstires,thevehicleskiddedtoastop.

Gordonhadbeenfollowingtheprogressofthechaseonthepoliceradio,HeknewwhereBatmanhad
goneandwenttheretoo,hopingthemaninthemaskwasnottrapped,thathecouldsomehowescape.
Butwhenheparkedhiscaracrossfromthegarage,hecouldseethat:itwashopeless.Theplacewas
ringedwithcops,cruisersblockingeveryentranceandexit,achopperhoveringoverhead,aspotlighton
itsunderbellyglaringdownatBatman’svehicle,andarmedofficersmovingintoplace.Therewas
nothingBatmancoulddoandnothingGordoncoulddoforhim.

“We’vegotthebastardnow,”Flasssaidtotheuniformedcaptainastheytrottedtowardthegarage.He
holstered his service automatic and commandeered a shotgun from a uniformed officer. He was
remembering being hauled up the side of a building and being so scared he could hardly answer
questions.Beingdumpedintogarbageandallthatmadehimfeellikeapukeandtheonlywayhecould
stop feeling like a puke was to watch the bastard die at his feet. And that was going to happen. Real
soon.Becausehecouldn’tgoonfeelinglikeapuke.

Rachelwasleaningagainstthepassenger-sidewindow,staringattheblurredimagesaroundher.“Brace
yourself,”saidBatman.“Thismightbealittlerough.”

Batmanhadamomentarydoubt.Whathewasabouttotrymightwork.Maybeshouldwork.Butwould

it?Wouldeventhiswildfantasyofamusclecar,thisBatmobile,beabletodowhatherequiredofit?
Doubtsarepointlessandunproductive—Ilearnedthatatthemonastery.Andheflooredtheaccelerator.
Andthe...Batmobile—forthat’swhatitwas—spedtowardtheedgeoftheroof.

“Sothebastard’stakingthecoward’swayout,”Flasssaidtothecaptain.“Gonnaoffhimself.”

Gordonwashopinghewouldn’tdoit,wouldn’tdriveofftheroofandfallsixfloorsandintoacrashthat
hesurelywouldnotsurvive.Butthat’swhatheseemedtobedoing.

Rachel did not know much because she could not discern the real from the phantasmagoric and she
knewthatshecouldnot.Butshewasabouttodie.Ofthatshewascertain.

Batmanpulledalevernexttothegearshift.TheBatmobileshiftedintoitsformaldrivingposition.The
carliftedofftheroofandstartedaramplessjump.

Sofar,sogood.

The vehicle soared thirty feet to the neighboring roof. It landed with a jolt. But the tires held and

Batmanspedtowardthenextroof.

Flassstared,theshotgunforgotteninhishands.

Gordonthought:Maybe?

Rachelwonderedifshewerealreadydead.

The Batmobile did its leap-and-soar maneuver twice more and finally landed on a steeply pitched,
chateau-styleroof.Itstiresbitintoredtiles,crumblingsomeandsendingothersflyingdownintothe
street,whereafewofthempeltedthetopsofpolicecruisersthatweretrackingtheBatmobile.

Batmanglancedattheglobalpositioningscreen—okay!—andupthroughthewindowatthechopper,

whichwasstillinpursuit.

“Thislastbitmightbetheroughest,”hetoldRachel.“Butwe’llbefineiftheroofholds.”

It almost did not. The tiles were raining inward and falling, baring cracking timbers, when the

Batmobile shot off a gable and dropped onto an elevated freeway twenty-five feet below. Batman’s
navigational gear told him that the nearest on ramp was almost two miles to the south. By the time a
police cruiser could get to it and then get to where Batman was now, the Batmobile would be only a
memory. But there was still the chopper. The chopper was a problem. As long as he stayed on the
freeway,thechoppercouldfollowhim.

“Holdon,”Batmansaid.“Justholdon.”

Warningsignsseemedtoracepastthem:thefreewaywasstillunderconstructionandthepavement

endedinlessthanamile.Therewerenolights;theelectricallineshadnotbeenextendedthisfaryet.
Batmanaccelerated.TheBatmobilesmashedthroughwoodenbarriersanddownintoaclearingbelow,
thenveeredundertheelevatedroad.Batmankilledtheexteriorlightsandthewindshieldimmediately
tinted night-vision green. He tapped a control near the screen, which converted it into a television
receivertunedtoaninfraredcameraattherearofthevehicle,andrevertedtheenginestostealthmode.
TheymadenosoundastheBatmobilespedsilentlyawayfromGothamCity.Thechopperhoveredand
descended,itssearchlightprobingtheareaundertheroad.Itmovedforward,intheoppositedirection
fromtheBatmobile.

The Batmobile lurched forward and flew off the edge of a lookout, over a river gorge, straight at a
waterfall.

Thevehiclesplashedthroughthewaterfalltothestonefloorofacave.Steelhookssprangfromits

rearchassisandengagedacable.TheBatmobilestopped.

“Quitearide,”Batmansaid,butRacheldidnothearhim;shewasonceagainunconscious.Thetopof

theBatmobilehissedopenandslidforward,andtheseatsroseuptoallowBatmantoexitthevehicle.

Batman lifted Rachel from her seat and carried her into the damp blackness of the caverns. He

enteredasectionthatwasbrightlylitandlaidRacheldownonamedicalexaminingtable.Heranup
stepstohiscomputerstation.Asmallcardboardcontainerlayonthedesknexttohismonitor.Batman
removed from it a vial and a hypodermic needle. He filled the needle with milky fluid from the vial,
cleareditofairbubbles,andreturnedtowhereRachellay,nowwhimperingquietly.Heremovedher
jacketandrolledupherleftsleeve.

“Ihopethiswon’thurt,”hesaid.Hejabbedtheneedleintoherbiceps,andfedthefluidintoherbody.

Hesteppedbackandwatched.Withinafewminutes,shestoppedherwhimperingandherbreathing

slowedandbecamedeepandregular.

“Ithinkwe’rehomefree,”hesaid.

Rachel’seyesflutteredopenandwidened.Batmanknewshewasseeingthebatshanginghighabove.

Sheclosedhereyesagain.

“Howdoyoufeel?”Batmanasked.

“Wherearewe?”Rachel’svoicewashoarse.

Batmanwassilent.

“Allright,then,whydidyoubringmehere?”

“IfIhadn’t,yourmindwouldnowbelost.Youwerepoisoned.”

“AmIstill?”

“No.YourleftarmprobablyhurtsabitwhereIinjectedtheantidote.Howmuchdoyouremember?”

Rachel frowned. “Nightmares. This face, this mask . . . It was Crane.”Sheswungherlegsaround

andstood.“Ihavetotellthepolice.We’vegot—”

Herkneesbuckled.Batmancaughtherandputherbackonthetable.

“Relax,”hesaid.“GordonhasCrane.”

Hesteppedbackintotheshadows.

“IsSergeantGordonyourfriend?”Rachelasked.

“Idon’thavetheluxuryoffriends.”

Foramoment,Batmancompletelyvanished.Whenheagainsteppedintothelight,hewascarryinga

syringe.“I’mgoingtogiveyouasedative.You’llwakeupathome.”Hehelduptwosyringes.“And
whenyoudo,getthesetoGordonandGordonalone.Trustnoone.”

“Whatarethey?”

“Theantidote.OneforGordontoinoculatehimself,theothertostartmassproduction.”

BatmangaveRachelthesyringes.

Shetuckedthemintoapocket.“Massproduction?”

“Cranewasjustapawn.Weneedtobeready.”

BatmangesturedwiththesyringeandRachelofferedherarm.“Iguessifyouwantedtohurtme,you

wouldhavebynow.”

Batman performed the injection and waited. Rachel put her head down on the table and, a few

secondslater,beganbreathingdeeply.Batmanputthesyringeinacabinetnearthetableandreturnedto
whereRachelwassleeping.

Hepulledoffhismask.HewasnolongertheBatman;hewasBruceWayne,gazingatapersonhe

hadknownallhislife.Hewasmotionlessexceptforhiseyes,whichshiftedfromRacheltothemask
andbackagain.

DoIloveher?

The answer was almost certainly yes. But to tell her how he felt would be to assume certain

obligations—oftrust,offidelity—andtoabandonwhathehadbeguntocreate.That,orsubjectherto
continualdanger.

Heputthemaskonandstrodeintothedarkness.

CHAPTERNINETEEN

lasshadvanishedafterthechaseattheparkinggarage,soGordonhadtosupervisetheinvestigation

atArkhamAsylumalone.Hebeganbysummoningcrime-scenetechniciansandahazardousmaterials
teamfromheadquartersandputtingthemtoworkinthehydrotherapyroom.Forthenexttwohours,he
questionedthestaffandthoseoftheinmateswhowereabletoanswerhim,scribbledafewlinesinhis
notebook,andaftersendingthestaffhome,returnedtothebasementandthehydrotherapyroom.Two
crime-sceneinvestigatorsweretakingflashphotosandamanwearingahazardousmaterialprotection
suitwasattheedgeofthelargehole,shiningafive-cellflashlightdownintoit.

“Theygetanyofthetoxinintothemains?”Gordonasked.

Thehazmattechniciannoddedinsidehisplastichelmet.“Oh,yeah.”

“Okay.Notifythewaterboard.There’sgottabeawayofisolatingthearea’s—”

“You don’t understand. They put it all in the water supply. They’ve been doing this for weeks.

Gotham’sentirewatersupplyislacedwithit.”

“Whyhaven’twefeltanyeffects?”

“Nearaswecanfigure,itmustbeacompoundthathastobeabsorbedthroughthelungs.”

“Idon’tknowifthat’sgoodnewsorbad,”Gordonsaid.“Keepmeposted.”

BruceWayne’sbirthdaybashwasinfullswingwhenBruceemergedfromthehiddendoorbehindthe
mirror now dressed in a dinner jacket and pants; the top two buttons of his white shirt were open.
Hundreds of people were in the big hall, drinking champagne and chattering, and the members of a
fourteen-pieceorchestrawererunningthroughtheirrepertoireofantiquedancetunes.

Alfredwaswaiting.“Haveapleasantdrive,MasterBruce?Ibelieveyoudidsaythatyouractivities

arenotaboutthrillseeking.”

“They’renot.”

Alfredpointedtowhereatelevision,soundmuted,wastunedtoanall-newschannel.TheBatmobile,

barelyvisibleinthedimlight,wassoaringbetweentwobuildings.“Well,”Alfredasked,“whatdoyou
callthat?”

“Damngoodtelevision?”

“It’samiraclenoonewasinjured.”

“Ididn’thavetimetoobservethehighwaycode,Alfred.”

“You’regettinglostinthis...creationofyours.”

“I’musingmycreationtohelppeople.Likemyfatherdid.”

“ForThomasWayne,helpingotherswasneveraboutprovinganythingtoanyone.Includinghimself.”

“It’sRachel,Alfred.”

“MissDawes?”

“Shewasdying.She’sinthecave,sedated.Ineedyoutotakeherhome.”

Alfred nodded and went to the hidden door. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and at the

reflection of Bruce standing behind him. “We both care about Rachel, sir. But what you’re doing is
beyondthat.Thisthing...itcan’tbepersonal.Oryou’rejustavigilante.”

Maybehe’sright.No!Ican’taffordtoentertaindoubts...notatthispoint.

“Look,Alfred,wecandiscussthislaterandwewill,foraslongasyoufeelisnecessary.Butnow,

we’vegottosendthepartiersaway.”

“ThoseareBruceWayne’sguestsoutthere.Youhaveanametomaintain.”

“Idon’tcareaboutmyname.”

“It’snotjustyourname.It’salsoyourfather’s.Andit’sallthat’sleftofhim.Don’tdestroyit.”

AlfredwentthroughthemirrordoorandBruceleftthelibrary.Heallowedhimselftoslouchandlet

the corners of his mouth became slightly slack and his gait became loose and a bit awkward. He
completedthedisguisebyturningthoseslacklipsupward,intoasmilethatdidnotreachhiseyes,and
ambledintothebighall.

“There’s the birthday boy himself,” someone cried over the sound of the music. There was a

smatteringofapplause.Brucemovedthroughthethrong,shakinghandsandgrinninghisvacantgrin.
The band abandoned the chorus of “Begin the Beguine” it had been playing and struck up “Happy
Birthday.”

BrucestoppedinfrontofWilliamEarle,whowishedhimahappybirthday.

“Thankyou,Mr.Earle.Ihopeyourbirthdayishappytoo,whenyouhaveit.TherewassomethingI

wantedtoaskyou...whatwasit?Oh,Iknow.Howwelldidthestockofferinggoagain?”

“Verywell.Thepricesoared.”

“Whobought?”

“Avarietyoffundsandbrokerages...it’sallabittechnical.Thekeythingis,ourcompany’sfuture

issecure.”

“Hey,that’sgreat.”Brucesaid.“Youhaveagoodtime,Mr.Earle.”

Bruceshambledon,grinning,shakinghands,tradingpleasantries,untilhereachedwhereLuciusFox

wasleaningagainstawall,watchingthefestivitieswiththeslightsmileofamanbored,butamiable.

“Thankyouforthat...specialpresent,”Brucesaid.

“I’msureyou’llfindauseforit.”

“Ialreadyhave.Howlongwouldittaketomanufactureonalargescale?”

“Weeks.Why?”

“I’mprettysuresomeone’splanningtodisperseits...opposite.Theyplantousethewatersupply.”

Brucelaughed,andFoxlaughedwithhim.Tothepartiers,itlookedasthoughtheywereenjoyinga

joke.

Foxsaid,“Thewatersupplyisn’tgoingtohelpyoudisperseaninhalant,unless...”

“What?”

Fox guffawed as though Bruce had just told him a really good one. “Unless you have access to a

microwave transmitter powerful enough to vaporize the water in the mains. The kind of transmitter
WayneEnterpriseshasrecentlymisplaced.”

“Misplaced?”

“Earlejustfiredmeforaskingtoomanyquestionsaboutit.”

“IneedyoutogobacktoWayneEnterprisesandstartmakingmoreoftheantidote.Ithinkthepolice

aregoingtoneedasmuchastheycangettheirhandson.”

“Mysecurityaccesshasbeenrevoked.”

“Thatwouldn’tstopamanlikeyou,wouldit?”

Thistime,Fox’ssmilewasgenuine.“No,itprobablywouldn’t.”

Foxmovedhimselfawayfromthewallandtowardthenearestdoor.Brucereturnedtohisshambling

andhand-shakinguntilanelderlywomaninastraplessorgandygownandalotofmakeupgrabbedhis
arm.

“Bruce,”shegushed.“There’ssomebodyhereyousimplymustmeet.”

“Notjustnow,Mrs.Delane—”

Mrs.DelaneignoredBruce’sprotest.Shegrabbedhisshouldersandturnedhimtofaceamanwhose

shavedheadwasturnedawayfromBruce.

“Now am I pronouncing it right,” Mrs. Delane asked as the man slowly turned around. As Bruce’s

gazefellonabluepoppyintheAsianman’sbuttonhole,shecompletedthequestion,“Mr.AllGool?”

The slackness left Bruce’s mouth and his eyes were no longer vacant. “You’re not Rā’s al Ghūl. I

watchedhimdie.”

“ButisRā’salGhūlimmortal?”someonewhisperedinBruce’searandevenbeforeBruceturnedhe

knewwhothewhispererwas.

Ducard,dressedinablacktuxedoandleaningonapolishedebonycane,beamedatBruce.“Arehis

methodssupernatural?”

Brucereplied,“Oraretheycheapparlortrickstoconcealyourtrueidentity...Rā’s.”

Outside, Alfred was holding the limp form of Rachel Dawes in one arm and, with the other hand,
openingthereardoorofhisBentley.HeshovedasetofgolfclubsasideandloweredRachelontothe
seat.Acaterer,whohadbeentakingasmokebreak,askedifeverythingwasokay.

Alfredsmiledathim.“Lady’salittletheworseforwear,I’mafraid.”

“That’llhappen,”thecaterersaid.

CHAPTERTWENTY

imGordoncouldnotremembereverhavingbeensoweary,notevenoverseas,intheArmy,whenhe

had fought a war, sometimes for days on end. He desperately wanted to go home and crawl into bed
nexttoBarbara,whowouldbesleeping,andtakecomfortfromherwarmthandcloseness.Buthecould
not,notyet.Therewasonemoretaskhehadtoperformbeforehecouldtellhimselfwhathealways
hadtotellhimself—thathehaddoneeverythingpossible.

Heunlockedthecelldoor,wentin,andsatacrossfromDr.JonathanCrane,whowashandcuffedtoa

chair.

“Whatwastheplan,Crane?”Gordonasked.“Howwereyougoingtoputyourtoxinintheair?”

Crane apparently did not hear the question. He was staring at a spot on the wall behind Gordon’s

shoulderandmurmuring,“Scarecrow...scarecrow...scarecrow...”

Gordonleanedforward.“Whoareyouworkingfor?”

CraneignoredGordon.Hesatstill,onlyhislipsmoving,repeatinghis“scarecrow”litany.

GordonwasawarethatCranemightbefaking,buthedidnotthinkso.He’dseenafewpsychosin

hisdayandhe’dbehappytobethisnextpaycheckthatCranewasamongtheirnumber.Heroseand
movedtothedoor.

SuddenlyCranesaid,“It’stoolate,youknow.Youcan’tstopit.”

Gordonstaredhardatthehandcuffedman.Oh,Cranewasstillapsycho,butGordonwassurethathe

wasnowapsychowhowastellingthetruth.

OnlyafewsecondshadpassedsinceBrucehadcalledDucardbyhisrealname.Nothinghadchanged:
themusicwasstillplaying,thepartierswerestilldancingandeatinganddrinking.

Rā’sbowedhisheadinacknowledgmentofBruce’sconclusion.“Surely,amanwhospendshisnights

scramblingovertherooftopsofGothamCitywouldn’tbegrudgemedualidentities?”

“Isavedyoufromthefire.”

“AndIwarnedyouaboutcompassion,didInot?”

Brucescannedtheroomandsilentlyberatedhimselffornotnoticingthemearlier—thesegrimmen

from the League of Shadows who hovered at the edge of the crowd, obviously out of place: hard,
dangerous men, some of whom Bruce recognized from the monastery. Bruce looked at his guests:
laughing,chattering,someofthemtipsy.

“Yourquarreliswithme,”hesaid.“Letthesepeoplego.”

“You’rewelcometoexplainthesituationtothem,”Rā’sreplied.

Bruce tried to read Rā’s’s expression. Amusement? Certainly. But something else, too. Contempt?

Resolve?Hostility?

He grabbed a drink from a passing waiter and shouted loudly enough to be heard over the music:

“Everyone.Everyone!”

Heraisedhisglassandswayedabit.Hiswordswereslightlyslurred.“Ijustwanttothankyouallfor

...drinkingmybooze.”

Therewasabriefburstoflaughter.

“No, seriously,” Bruce continued. “The thing about being a Wayne is you’re never short of a few

freeloaderstofillupyourmansion...Sohere’stoyoupeople.”

Bruce downed his drink and slammed the empty glass down on a table near Joe Fredericks, his

father’soldfriendandcolleague.FredericksroseandclaspedBruce’selbow.“That’senough,Bruce.”

Brucepulledhisarmaway.“I’mnotfinished.”Hegotanotherglassfromthetableandraisedit.“To

youfalsefriends...andpatheticsuck-upswhosmilethroughyourteethatme...Youhadyourfill,
nowleavemeinpeace.Getout.Everybody.Out!”

Brucewassurprisedtorealizethatmuchofwhathehadsaid,hebelieved.

Most of the partiers were already moving toward the doors, snaking their way around tables and

chairs,beingcarefulnottolookbackatBruce.Thevastroomwassilentexceptforthesoundoftheir
movements.Brucecouldhearautomobileenginesstartinginthedrivewayoutside.

Joe Fredericks planted himself in front of Bruce. “The apple has fallen very far from the tree, Mr.

Wayne.”

“Sorryyouthinkso,Joe.Andforwhatit’sworth,Ididn’tmeanyou.”

“Likehell!”Fredericksturnedonhisheelandstalkedaway.

Themusiciansfinishedpackingtheirinstrumentsandsheetmusicandleft.

The room was empty except for a dozen men who stood with their arms hanging loosely at their

sides,weightcenteredintheirbellies,andBruceandRā’salGhūl,whofacedeachother.

“Quiteaperformance,”Rā’ssaid.“Amusingbutpointless.Noneofthesepeoplehavelongtolive—

youranticsattheasylumhaveforcedmyhand.”

“Cranewasworkingforyou?”

“Histoxinisderivedfromtheorganiccompoundinourbluepoppies.Hewasabletoweaponizeit.”

“He’samemberoftheLeagueofShadows?”

“Ofcoursenot.Hethoughtourplanwastoholdthecityforransom.”

“Butyou’rereallygoingtounleashCrane’spoisonontheentirepopulation.”

“ThenwatchGothamtearitselfapartthroughfear.”

“You’regoingtodestroymillionsoflives.”

“Onlyafoolwouldcallwhatthesepeoplehave‘lives,’Bruce.”

Rā’swalkedtothedoorandmotionedforBrucetojoinhim.ThedozenLeagueofShadowsmembers

startedtofollow,thenstoppedwhenRā’sheldupaflathand.

Rā’sandBruceleftthebighallandwereinalong,dimlylitcorridorlinedononesidewithbooks

and portraits of Bruce’s ancestors, and on the other with windows, through which could be seen the
silhouettesofhillsagainsttheglowofaskylitbyGothamCity’slights.Therewasnocarpetinghere

andRā’s’scanetappedonthehardwoodfloor.

Rā’s gestured toward the distant city. “The League of Shadows has been a check against human

corruption for thousands of years. We sacked Rome. Loaded trade ships with plague rats. Burned
London to the ground. Every time a civilization reaches the pinnacle of its decadence, we return to
restorethebalance.”

“Gothamisn’tbeyondsaving.Therearegoodpeoplehere—”

“You’redefendingacitysocorruptweinfiltratedeverylevelofitsinfrastructure.Effortlessly.”

Bruce looked at Rā’s’s profile, limned against the window, and saw what a disguise the Ducard

persona had been. Rā’s had not changed his clothing or altered any particular thing about his
appearance,yethewasadifferentman—taller,straighter,witheyesthatgleamedfrombeneathaledge
of brow, and an enormous dignity. His words were those of a fanatic, but his manner was not at all
fanatical.Heseemedgrave,andsad.

IsthissomethingIlearnedfromhimwithoutknowingit?Bruceaskedhimself.Thiswayofaltering

appearances?Theanswerhadtobeyes.

“Youhavenoillusionsabouttheworld,Bruce,”Rā’ssaid.“WhenIfoundyouinthatjailyouwere

lost.ButIbelievedinyou.Itookawayyourfearandshowedyouapath.Youweremygreateststudent.
..itshouldbeyoustandingatmyside,savingtheworld.”

“Theworld?”

“Ofcourse.GothamCityisonlyanecessarybeginning.TheworstpartsofusHomosapiensarenow

dominant,destroyingbothwhatisgoodintheraceitselfandtheplanetthatsustainsit.Forthesakeof
whatcanbenobleinhumanity,themanymustbedestroyedsothatthefewcansurvivetoevolveand
grow,tofulfillourpotential.”

“Andslaughteringmillions...nobillions—thatdoesn’tbotheryou?”

“DoIlookasthoughitdoesnotbotherme?”

Hedidnot.Helookedlikeamanmaintaininghisbearingunderatremendousweight.

“Standwithme?”hewhispered.

“I’mstandingrightwhereIbelong—betweenyouandthepeopleofGotham.”

“No one can save Gotham. When a forest grows too wild, a purging fire is natural, and inevitable.

Tomorrowtheworldwillwatchinhorrorasoneofitsgreatcitiesdestroysitself.Themovementbackto
harmonywillbeunstoppablethistime.”

“You’vetriedtoattackGothambefore?”

“Yes.Overtheagesourweaponshavegrownmoresophisticated...withGothamwetriedanewone

...economics.”

“Youcreatedthedepressiontwentyyearsago?”

Rā’s nodded. “Create enough hunger and everyone becomes a criminal. But we underestimated

certainofGotham’scitizens...suchasyourparents.”

Bruce felt anger surge through him and he neither could control it nor did he want to. His jaws

clenched,hismusclestightened.HeknewthatRā’swasawareofhisreactionandthatRā’swasplaying
him.Herememberedhowtorelaxandhedid.

“Unfortunate casualties of the fight for justice. Slain by one of the very people they were trying to

help.Theirdeathsgalvanizedthecityintosavingitself,andGothamhaslimpedoneversince.We’re
backtofinishthejob.”

Rā’s looked back at the ballroom and nodded. His men began to emerge into the corridor. Bruce

mentallycountedandconfirmedhisearlierestimate:therewereindeedadozenofthem.

“Proceed,”Rā’ssaidtothemandtheyfannedoutandpulledlightersfromtheirpockets.Theybegan

toignitedrapesandfurniture.

“Isthisnecessary?”Bruceasked.

“Perhapsnot.Butitssymbolicvaluepleasesme.”

TheflameslitRā’s’sfaceanddancedinhiseyes.“Thistime,nomisguidedidealistswillbeallowed

tostandintheway.Likeyourfather,youlackthecouragetodoallthatisnecessary.Ifsomeonestands
inthewayoftruejustice,yousimplywalkupbehindhimandstabhimintheheart.”

Brucewascaughtbysurpriseasaninjadescendedfromtheraftersabovehim.Hespunandgrabbed

theninja’sthroatandashedidRā’sslidalongbladefromhiscane.

The corridor was filled with smoke that stung Bruce’s eyes and scratched at the back of his throat.

Flameshadascendedthewallsandwerelickingacrosstheancientceilingbeams.Hehadexperienced
somethinglikethisoncebefore,whenhehadsetthemonasteryafire.Then,ithadbeenadisadvantage,
butnow...Hekneweveryinchofthishouseandhisopponentsdidnot.Ifseeingbecamedifficult,or
impossible,thatcouldbeahelp...

BrucestrucktheninjaonthebaseoftheskullandasthemancrumpledBrucepivotedtowardRā’s.

Rā’sthrustwithhisblade.Brucetookthepointnearhisabdomen,feltitsliceintotissueandhitbone.
Herememberedsomethinganinstructoratthemonasteryhadsaid:Fightingwithsharpedges,youwill
becut.Itisinevitableanditwillhurt.True,itdidhurt,butnothingvitalwasdamaged.Brucetwisted
hisarmtotherightandslappedthebladewithhispalmandtheswordflewfromRā’s’sgrasp.

“Perhapsyoutaughtmetoowell,”Brucesaid.

“Orperhapsyouwillneverlearn...”Rā’sstruckasupportingcolumnwithhiscane,ashehadonce

strucktheicebeneathBruce’sfeet.Bruceraisedhiseyesintimetoseeaflamingbeamfallingtoward
him,buttoolatetoavoidit.

Rā’s’snextwordswerealmostlostinthecrackleofthefire.“...tomindyoursurroundingsaswell

asyouropponent.”

Brucetriedtorise,triedtopushthebeamoffhisbody.Hegothishandsunderitandstrained;itlifted

aninch,two...andhefeltasthoughhismuscleshadsuddenlyemptied.Thebeamslippeddownontop
ofhim.Hecouldnotmove.

Rā’sbenttopickuphissword.HesliditintothecaneandregardedBruce.“Justiceisbalance.You

burneddownmyhouseandleftmefordead.Consideruseven.”

ButBrucedidnothearRā’s’sfinalwords.Hehadlostconsciousness.

Rā’sstrodetoadoorandopenedit.Followedbyabillowofsmoke,hesteppedoutsidethehouse.

Agroupofhismenwereawaitinghisorders.

“Noonecomesout,”Rā’ssaid.“Makesure.”

Themenintuxedosdispersed,eachgoingtoadifferentdoorofthemanor.Mostofthewindowswere

glaringredlyandacolumnofsmokeroseintothesky.Eventually,someone,aneighbor,wouldnotice

andcallforhelp.Butthenearestfiredepartmentwasfifteenminutesaway.Bythetimeitarrived,the
oldbuildingwouldbegoneandanyoneinsideitwouldbeashes.

Rā’smurmured,“Wewouldhavebeenmagnificenttogether.”

He went to a SWAT van parked on the lawn and to the open doors of the trailer hitched to it. He

climbedinside.Hestoodbesidealarge,industrial-typemachine,whichhepatted,asthoughitwerea
cherishedpet.

JonathanCranefeltsomethingdropintohislap.Helifteditandstaredatit:hismask.Hethoughtthis
delightful,andputonthemask,andlookedaroundforsomeonetothank.Twomeninuniformsstoodin
theopendoorofhiscell.

“Timetoplay,”oneofthemsaid.

Crane—ortheScarecrow,ashenowthoughtofhimself—followedtheuniformsoutintothecorridor.

Therewasaloudclangandallthedoorsofallthecellsswungopen.Slowly,theinmatesstumbledout,
wide-eyed, some of them obviously dazed. They stood, some in small groups, some alone, backs
pressedagainstthecellbars.Alotofthemweremumbling.

“Whatarewewaitingfor?”theScarecrowasked,andnobodyansweredhim.

The uniformed men left Crane and hurried outside to their van. They got several bags of plastic
explosivesanddetonatorsandbeganplacingthemonthewallssurroundingthegrounds.

AlfredfoundthekeystoRachelDawes’sapartmentinherpurse.Itwasinaconvertedbrownstonenear
thetheaterdistrict,anolddwellingwithoutadoorman,soAlfredhadnotroublegettinginsideandnot
muchtroublehaulingRachelupthestairs,intoherroomsandontoherbed.Althoughsheoccasionally
mumbledinhersleepduringthedrivefromthesuburbs,shedidnotawaken.Hewonderedifheshould
leaveheranotebutdecidednotto.Hewasnotsurewhat,exactly,hadtranspiredbetweenherandBruce
andsohedidnotknowtheappropriatethingtosay.Intheend,hesimplywentbacktothelimousine
andbeganthereturntoWayneManor.

The trip was quick and easy, until the last two miles. At this time of night, traffic was sparse,

especially once he was away from midtown. The freeway was deserted for miles at a stretch, and
drivingwasapleasure.Hewonderediftherewouldbeanypartiersleft.Probably.SomeofGotham’s
elitetendedtostayaslongastherewasamorsellefttoeatoradroptodrink.

As he was turning off the down ramp and onto the access road that led to Wayne Manor, Alfred

noticedaglowinthesky.Afalsedawn?No,notthisearly,andnottothenorth.Thenwhat?

Afire!

Rachel did not know how long her eyes had been open, how long she had been staring at the pattern
madebylightfromoutsideherwindowshiningonherbedroomceiling.Shewaslyingonherbedinher
darkenedbedroom,fullyclothed.Shetriedtorememberhowandwhenshehadgottenhereandfound
herselfconfrontingaphantasmagoriaofimages:

...ascarecrowwithwormyeyes...

...aflyingautomobile...

...acorridorthathadnoend...

Then she had the most disturbing thought of all: Had she been drugged? That had happened once

before,inlawschool,ataparty,whenaclassmatehadslippedanhallucinogenicintoherlemonadeand
forthenextfourteenhoursshesawthingsthatwerenotreal.Andshehatedthingsthatwerenotreal,
hatedtheveryideaofthem.

Shestood, on wobblylegs, and snappedon a bed-table lampand looked atherself in her dressing-

table mirror: her clothes were mussed but intact and a few strands of hair had pulled loose from her
ponytailandstrayedacrossherface,buttherewerenovisiblecutsorbruises.Shementallyscannedher
body, kicked her legs, waved her arms: nothing broken, no unusual sensations, everything apparently
intact.

“SoIfellasleepandhadthemotherofallnightmares,”shesaidaloudandsomehowthesoundofher

voicewasreassuring.

Shelookedatheralarmclock:tenintheevening.Sowhenhadshedroppedoff...Andthenshesaw

them:twosmallsyringes.

Inthenightmare,shehadbeengiventwosmallsyringesbythebatman.

Nonightmare:inarush,sherememberedeverything—thetripacrossthebridge,theasylum,Crane,

therescue,thechase.Everything.

She sat on the bed and picked up her phone. There was work to do and Rachel Dawes had always

beenatherbestwhenshewasatwork.

TheArkhaminmatesstumbledintotheexerciseyard,whichwaslitbymercury-vaporlampsarrayedon
the walls and fences. Some stood numbly, slowly surveying the area, obviously waiting either for
something to happen or someone to tell them what was going on. Others moved quickly into the
shadowsortothegates.

There was a sudden, deafening explosion and a chunk of the rear wall spun across the yard and

shatteredagainstthebuilding.Debrissweptovereveryone.Someoftheinmatesrubbedtheireyeswith
theirfists,tryingtoclearthemofdustandsmoke.Whentheycouldseeclearlyagain,theywerelooking
atagapinthewall,largeenoughforsixmentopassabreastthroughit.

Afewofthemen,thosewhohadgonetothegateandintotheshadows,rantothegapandontothe

streetoutside.Therestfollowedmoreslowly,andagreatdeallesscertainly,tofreedom.

Gordonhadbeenintheheadnurse’soffice,whichhehadcommandeered,sippingcoldcoffeefroma
crackedmugandtryingtoreachFlassbycellphone,whenheheardtheexplosion.Throughthewindow
hesawthegapinthewall.Yankinghisgunfromitsholster,heranforanexit.Bythetimehereached
theyard,atleasthalftheinmateshadpassedthroughthegapandweredispersingintothecityoutside.
Gordonhesitated:hecouldshootafewoftheescapees,maybedropevenadozenorso.Butthatwould
be wholesale slaughter and he had no stomach for it. So what else? He grabbed the nearest man and
handcuffedhimtoadrainpipe.

“Atleastoneofyouisstayingput,”hesaid.

Thenhegotouthiscellphoneagainandspeed-dialedheadquarters.

Flassandadozenpatrolmenarrivedtenminuteslater.Theyexaminedtheholeinthewall,anabsolutely
useless waste of time in Gordon’s opinion, and flashed their lights around the yard, presumably
searchingforanyonewhohadnotyetfled.

FlassjoinedGordon.“They’reallgone?”

Gordonnoddedyesandbothmenstaredthroughthegapintothedarkstreet.

“Howmanywereinmaximumsecurity?”Flassasked.

“Dozens...serialkillers,rapists,assortedsociopaths.Icalledthecityworksofficeandaskedthem

toraisethebridges,maybekeepsomeofthenutcasesontheisland.I’mstillwaitingforananswer.By
thetimeIgetone,it’llprobablybetoolate.”

“Yeah, probably. So we got a whole lot of homicidal maniacs running loose in Gotham, that what

you’retellingme,Gordon?”

“That’swhatI’mtellingyou.”

Alfredaccelerated.Heskiddedthroughthemanor’sfrontgateandhisworstfearswereconfirmed...
No,nothisworstfears.Thehousewasafireandthatwasterrible,buthisworstfearsconcernedthe
locationofBruce.

First things first: get help. He braked and picked up the car phone. No signal, not this far from

downtownGotham.Tobeexpected.

Hedrovetowardthehouseandsawsomethingthatdidnotbelong,atractor-trailertruckparkedon

thelawn,ontopofaflowerbed.Therewerenocarsinthedriveway,whichmeantthattheguestshad
already gone, but in the glow of the fire, he could see strange men standing at intervals around the
blaze.Guards?Almostcertainly.Buttheywerelookingtowardthehousewhichmeant...?

Whichmeantthattheirjobwastopreventanyonefromleavingtheconflagration!

TheywouldnotwelcometheWaynes’sixty-somethingbutler,ofthatAlfredwascertain.No,werehe

toappear,theywoulddohimharm.Buttheirpositionmeantthatsomeonewasstillinthehouseandthat
someoneverylikelywasMasterBruce.HemightalreadybedeadbutAlfredrefusedtomakesuchan
assumption. Therefore, he must get past the guards. But how? He was not a violent man, nor an
especiallyathleticone.True,hehadplayedcricketeffectivelyasayoungsterbackinNottingham,but
thatwaslongago,inanothercountry,beforehehadmetThomasWayneandhislifehadreallybegun.

Nomatter.Asalways,hewoulddowhatmustbedone.Hewasprobablynomatchfortheintrudersin

hand-to-handcombat,aboutwhichAlfredknewextremelylittle,andwithoutdoubttheywerearmed.A
weaponwasinorder.Therewereapairofeighteenth-centuryduelingpistolsinthelibrary,allegedtobe
thoseusedbyAlexanderHamiltonandAaronBurrintheirfatalencounter,buttheywerehardlyofany
usetoAlfredhere,assumingtheycouldbemadetofunction.Andtherewerenootherfirearmsonthe
estate.Butgunswerenottheonlyweapons.Therewerearrowsandswordsandcudgels...Cudgels?
Nowthatwasathought!Ofcourse,hehadnoaccesstoanactualcudgel,butperhapshecouldemploy
asubstitute.Andheknewjustwhatitwouldbe!Hestoppedthecarbeneathabeechtreeandpulleda
golfclub—anineiron—fromthebaginthebackseat.

Hecreptforward.Thehousewasnowfullyaflame,sendingtorrentsofsparksintothenightsky.It

wasalmostbeautiful,yetitwasthemosthorridthingAlfredhadeverseenandhisstomachchurned.He
wantednothingmorethantoliedownandbesick,buthecouldnot,notuntilhehadascertainedBruce’s
fateandhelped,ifhelpwaspossible.

The truck and another vehicle were at the front of the house. Therefore, it seemed likely that the

greatestoppositionwouldbeencounteredthere.Perhapstherewouldbefewerpotentialobstaclesatthe
rear,nearthegreenhouseandtheoldwell.Movingasquicklyashissomewhatarthriticbonesallowed,
Alfred circled the house, keeping just outside the glow cast by the fire. He paused and squinted. He
couldseeonlyoneman,whowasstanding,armsakimbo,inthecourtyardbythekitchendoor.

He approached the guard from the rear and swung the nine iron at the man’s back and the metal

connected with skin and bone and made a sickening clunk, and the man dropped to the grass. Alfred
stared.Itwasjustified,whathehadjustdone,andevennecessary,butitwasalsobestiallyviolentand
hewasdeeplyshockedthathehadbeencapableofit,haddoneitwithoutthinking.Perhapsthatwasthe
reasonhehadbeenabletodoit:Hehadactedwithoutthought.

Buthadhekilledaman?

Heknelt,placedtwofingersontheman’sneck,and—thankheaven—feltapulse.

Abitofflamingdebrislandedonthegrassnearbyandsmolderedbriefly.Well!ThatremindedAlfred

thatworkhadtobedone!Itwouldn’tgetanyeasier,puttingitoff!

Heranintothehouse.

Itwasasthoughhehadrunintoawall,sointensewastheheat.Theairwassuckedfromhislungs

andhestoppeddeadinhistracks.ThentherewasamuffledwhumpfandAlfredwasflungbackward,
out through the door into the garden. He surmised that the cooking gas had just ignited and thus the
explosion.Throughthedoorhecouldseewhatappearedtobeasolidwallofflame.Nogettingintothe
manorthatway,notanymore!

Butthegreenhouse...?

Hewentintotheglassstructureand...yes!Therewereacoupleofoldblankets,tooworntobeused

inside, but put here in case some botanical use might be found for them. And he had personally
supervisedthereinstallationoftheplumbing;heknewthewaterfaucetswerefunctioning.Andindeed
theywere!Hesoakedtheblanketsuntiltheyweresaturated,wrappedthemaroundhishead,filledhis
lungswithcoolair,andgettingarunningstart,againventuredintotheinferno.Thistime,thankstothe
blankets,hewasabletopenetratethefierywalland,chokingandcoughing,madehiswayintothelong
corridorthatskirtedtheballroom.HetriedtocallBruce’sname,buthisvoicewasathinrasp,inaudible
intheroarandcrackleallaroundhim.Nothingtodobutsoldieron!

Afewyardsfarther,hesawtheyoungmanonthefloor,mostlyhiddenbyaheavyoakbeam.Alfred

kneltbyhim,andasloudlyashewasable,croaked,“MasterBruce!”

Bruce’seyelidsflutteredandhislipsparted.Alfredwrungabitofmoisturefromthecornerofoneof

theblankets.ThewaterdroppedintoBruce’smouthandhiseyescamefullyopen.

Alfredbegan:“Sir,I’mafraid—”

“Iknow,Alfred.”

Brucetwistedhisbody.Thebeamdidnotmove.

“Can’tbudgeit,”Brucewhispered.

Alfredinjectedamodicumofexasperationintowhatwasleftofhisvoice.“Sir,whateveristhepoint

ofallthosepush-upsifyoucan’teven—”

“Canit,Alfred,”Brucesaid,andgothispalmsunderthebeam.Hebenthisknees,exhaledloudly,

andpushed.

The beam inched upward, but not far enough. Alfred lay next to Bruce and put his hands on the

beam. Together, they strained. The beam moved, not much, but Bruce rolled out from under it. The
beamdroppedtothefloor.

Brucemanagedtostand,swayed,thenfell.

“Verywell,”Alfredsaid.HeputoneoftheblanketsaroundBruce,grabbedhimbeneaththearmpits,

anddraggedhimtothemirrornearthepiano.Heplayedthefournotes—Thankthestarsthatthefire
had not yet damaged this delicate mechanism!—and the mirror swung on its hinges. Alfred pulled
Bruce into the hidden passageway and onto the elevator. Shrugging off the blanket, now almost
completelydry,hepushedabuttonandheardthegeneratorstartsomewhere.Thelightsbelowflickered
on.Withacreak,theelevatorbegantodescendintothecave.

TheairbecamecoolerandAlfredcouldagainbreathenormally.Theelevatorjoltedtoastopandasit

did, Alfred heard a deafening crash. Fragments of dirt and stone rained down around him and he
realizedthatthehousemusthavecollapsed.

Bruce stirred and, leaning against the side of the elevator, got to his feet. Alfred helped him to the

workbench.Brucelookedupattheceiling.Thereweretearsinhiseyes.

“WhathaveIdone,Alfred?Everythingmyfamily...myfatherbuilt...”

AlfredwastuggingoffBruce’sjacket.Thewhiteshirtbeneathwasstainedwithblood.Alfredtriedto

speak,butcouldnot.Hecoughed,andtriedagain:“TheWaynelegacyismorethanbricksandmortar,
sir.”

AlfredtoreBruce’sshirtoffandpeeredatagashonBruce’sside,stickywithcongealingblood.

“IthoughtIcouldhelpGotham,”Brucesaid.“ButI’vefailed.”

Alfredrippedalongstripfromtheshirtandbegantowinditaroundthewound.Withoutlookingup

fromhistask,heasked,“Andwhydowefall,sir?”

Alfred knotted the improvised bandage and answered his own question. “So that we might better

learntopickourselvesup.”

“Stillhaven’tgivenuponme?”

“Never.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

t first, Rachel had wondered if she was in any condition to drive. She still could not separate what

wasrealfromwhatwasimaginedaboutthewilddriveandchasethroughthecity,butshehadvividand
accuratememoriesofeverythingthathadprecededit.Andsherememberedthecavernandthemasked
manwhohadsavedher:thatwasclearinhermind.Butshehadbeendrugged,twice,andmaybeshe
wasstillsufferingafter-effects,notfittobebehindthewheel.No,shehadbeengivenanantidoteand,
besides,shefeltokay.Betterthanokay;shewasrestedandhersensesweresharpandclear.

AndshehadtofindGordon.

Sheneededtransportation,desperately,buthercarwasstillparkedneartheasylumintheNarrows,

milesaway.Buthermother’swasn’t.Nocabsonthestreet,notthislate,buthermother’scondowas
onlyamileandahalfawayandRachelranintheparkasoftenasherschedulepermitted.

Shebegantojogand,aftertwoblocks,quickenedherpacetoarun.Eighteenminuteslater,shewas

talkingtoagrayingwomaninanightgown,hermom,whowasatfirstangryatbeingawakenedand,
whenshehadfinishedrubbinghereyesandsplashingcoldwateronherface,worried,Rachelassured
herthat,no,everythingwasokay,shejustneededtoborrowacarforanhourortwo.Fiveminutesafter
thatshewasdrivinghermom’sancientgasguzzlerfromagaragebeneaththecondo.

ItwasalmostmidnightbythetimeshearrivedattheNarrows.Fromseveralblocksaway,shesaw

policeflashersclusteredaroundthebridgetotheNarrows.Assheapproachedit,ared-facedcopwitha
beerbellyheldupawarninghand.Rachelbrakedandrolleddownherwindow.

Thecopputaforearmonthecar’sroofandleanedtowardher.“Look,lady,we’reabouttoraisethe

bridges.Youwon’thavetimetogetbackover.”

RachelfumbledinherpurseandfoundherID,whichsheheldinfrontofthecop’sface.“Officer,I’m

aGothamCitydistrictattorneywithinformationrelevanttothissituation,sopleaseletmepass.”

“Letmetalktomysergeant,”thecopsaid.“You’llhavetoleaveyourcarhere.”

Foranhour,Gordon,Flass,andtwouniformshadbeenprowlingthestreetsandalleysoftheNarrows,
awarethatcitizenswerepeeringatthemfromwindowsandporches.ThenGordon’sflashlightbeamhit
a man dressed in Arkham Asylum coveralls, cowering behind a Dumpster. The inmate began to hop
awayononefootandFlasssaidtoGordon,“Keepyourlightonhim.”

Flassbroughttheinmatedownwithatackle.

“Harassment,Iseeharassment,”someoneyelledfromabackyard.

Flasspointedhisgunatthenosyneighbor.“Wannaseeexcessforce?”

GordonpushedFlass’sgundown.“Flass,coolit!”

Gordonstoodtheinmateonhisfeetandcuffedhim.

Theinmatebegantowhimper.

“Takeiteasy,”Gordontoldhim.

“Hey,Gordon,”oneoftheuniformsshouted,“somebodytoseeyou.”

GordonflashedhislightupthestreetandsawRachelDawes,fromtheD.A.’soffice,comingtoward

him.

“Whatareyoudoinghere?”heaskedher.

“Our . . . mutual friend sent me with this.” She took the two syringes from her purse. “These

counteract Crane’s toxin. One is for you, and the other is to start mass production in case things get
worse.”

Gordonacceptedthesyringes.

“Hopefullyyouwon’tneedthem,”Rachelsaid.

“I won’t. Not unless the perps have some way of getting it into the air. Okay, Ms. Dawes, thanks.

Nowyou’dbettergetofftheislandbeforetheyraisethebridges.”

Gordonmotionedtothecop,wholedRachelbackintothedarkness.

Thewordhadfinallycomethrough;finally,thecopshadpermissiontoraisethebridges.SergeantHarry
Bilkie,whohadbeenwaitingforanhour,hunghiswalkie-talkieonhisbeltandwentintothecramped
ironcabinthathousedthebridgecontrols.

Apolicevantoreuptheavenueandsquealedtoastop.Harrygaveittheonce-over:regularcopvan.

“Youguysgottagetacross?”heshouted.

“Inahurry,”thedrivershoutedback.

“Okay,lastone,”Harrysaid,andwavedthevanon.

Harrywaiteduntilhesawthevan’staillightsvanish,thenpulledalever.Thebridgesplitinhalfand

eachsidebegantopivotupward.

Harryspokeintohiswalkie-talkie.“Southside’sup.”

Therewasasquawkandthreeothervoicesreportedthatthenorthandwestsideswereup,too,and

thetunnelwasclosed.TheNarrowswascompletelycutofffromtherestofthecity.

SomeonehadfinallyseenthefireontheWaynepropertyandmadethenecessarycall.Theenginesfrom
the nearest station arrived ninety minutes after the blaze had been started and the engines from the
secondnearestdidnotarriveuntilalmosttwohourshadpassed.Thefiremenwentthroughthemotions
ofpumpingsomewaterontotheconflagration,butrealistically,theyknewtherewasnothingtheycould
doexcept,asoneofthemsaid,“Breakoutthemarshmallowsandcalltheinsurancecompany.”

In the vast, dim cavern underneath the remains of Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne was transforming
himself. He seemed to be in no hurry. He put on the flexible tunic, the tights, the boots, the graphite
cowl,andthecape.Hethrusthishandsintothescallopedglovesandbuckledthewide,compartmented

beltaroundhiswaist.

For a moment, he looked up at the bats, barely visible, fluttering among the stalactites. Then he

turnedtoAlfred,whohadbeenwatchinghim,andsaid,“ThismightbetheBatman’slastride.”

“ThenIsuggestyoumakeitagoodone.”

“I’lldomybest.”

BatmanstrodetotheBatmobile,climbedintothecabin,andstartedtheengine.Itroared,andthebats

swarmedfromtheirhidingplaces.

Afewsecondslater,thevehicleeruptedfrombehindthewaterfallandspedintothenight.

Rachelfollowedthecopdownthealley,whichendedinasquareatthebaseofamonorailtower.She
sawaSWATvanparkednearbyandseveraluniformed,vestedmendeployedinthearea,lookingupat
the monorail track. A little boy, about six, with blond hair falling in a cowlick over his forehead was
tuggingatthesleeveofoneoftheSWATs.

“Ican’tfindmymom,”theboysaid.

TheSWATshovedtheboy,whostumbledbackwardandfoughttomaintainhisbalance.Rachelranto

himandputasteadyinghandonhisshoulder.

“Whatthehellareyoudoing?”shesnappedattheSWAT

TheSWATignoredherandasRachelheldtheboy’shandsheshoutedattheSWAT“Hey,you.Look

atme!”

TheSWATturned,drewapistolfromhisholster,andaimeditatRachel.

“Gentlemen!”ItwasavoicenewtoRachel:deep,grave,impressive.Shesawatallmanwithdeep-

set,burningeyesunderaledgeofbrowstepfromtherearofthevan.Behindhim,therewasabulky
industrialmachineofsomesort.

“Timetospreadtheword,”hesaid,“andthewordis...panic.”

Hepressedabuttononthemachineand—

Within moments, the reaction spread throughout the Narrows. It was as though cannons were fired
simultaneously along every street and alley. Fire hydrants shot their caps into the streets and began
gushing.Manholecoversflippedhighintotheair.Sewerpipessplit.Steampipesburst.Soontherewas
brokenglassandwaterseepingfromfoundationsandspoutingfromsprinklers.Avenueswereflooded
andcarswerestalled.Alarmsrangandsirensshrieked.Tensofthousandsofmen,women,andchildren
awakened,blinked,lookedfirstatclocksandthenoutofwindows,andmuttered,“Whatthehell,”and
rantotheirphonestocallneighborsandrelativesandaskifanyonehadanyideawhatwasgoingon.

Onemaninhiseightiesfoundhisairraidwardenhelmet,lastwornduringWorldWarTwo,andputit

onandtoldhiswifethatheknewitwouldcomeinhandysomeday,dammit.

Some went to the nearest house of worship and many, many more simply prayed wherever they

happenedtobe.

Andothersmadepreparationstobeginlooting.

JeffBenedicthadthoughttonightwouldbeaneasyone.He’dpulledthemidnight-to-eightshiftathis
place of employment, the Water Board Control Room, housed downtown in Wayne Tower, and heck,
the graveyard shift was usually a snap. Even Gothamites, maybe the world’s biggest night owls after
NewYorkers,hadtosleepsometimeandsleepersdidn’tusewater,atleastnotmuch.Andhisbosswas
LonCalter,oneoftherealniceguys,easytogetalongwith,totalksportswith,todowhateverneeded
doingwith.Sosomeguysbitchedaboutthegraveyard,butnotJeff.ToJeff,thegraveyardwascake.

Hewasleaningbackinhischair,readingthesportssectionoftheTrib,whenLonsaid,“Lookathat,”

andJeffsawthatthemonitorsweregoingcrazy.

JeffandLonmovedtotheirworkstationsandbeganpushingbuttonsandcheckinggauges.

Jeffpointedtoadial.“Wouldjalookatthatpressure?It’sspiking.”

“Canyoutellwhere?”Lonasked.

Jeff swiveled his chair to a computer screen, tapped some keys, and said, “Right there. Southeast

sector.”

“That’s the water main under the Narrows,” Lon said. “Something’s . . . cripes—something’s

vaporizingthewater.”

“Thatain’tpossible,”Jeffsaid.

“No?Takealookatthetemperature.Goingthroughtheroof.”

“Whaddawedo?”

“Beatsme.Whateverthisis,itain’tcoveredinthemanual.”

SomethinghadexplodednearRachel,knockingherdown,andsomethingelsescaldedhercheek.The
hemofherskirtwasrippedandherkneewasscraped—thatwaswhatshewasfirstawareof.Sheshook
herheadandblinkedhereyesandbegantryingtomakesenseofthings.Thestreetwasfillingwith...
what?Fog?Butitcouldn’tbefog,notwhentheairwasclearamomentago.Sowhat?Thedrugs?Was
sheexperiencingadrugflashback?No—steam.That’swhatthemistwas!Sheheardachild’swhimper
andsawthelittleblondboylyinginthegutter.Hewashurt.Shebegancrawlingtowardhim.

Gordonhadbeenstandingnearasewerwhenthelidshotintotheair,takingpartsofthestreetwithit,
andacobblestonestruckthesideofhishead.HewentdownandheardFlassscreamingincoherently.
Hegottohisfeetandfeltwarmthandwetness,firstonhishandsandfaceandthensoakingthroughhis
clothing.Steamwasrollinginwavesovereverything.HesawFlass,adarksilhouette,wavinghisgun
andcontinuingtoscream.

Flassfired.Atwhat?SomethingGordoncouldn’tsee?Or...maybesomethingthatwasn’tthere.

Flassfiredagainandthistimetheflashfromthemuzzleofhisgunelongatedandgrewtentaclesthat

reachedtowardGordon—

He knew he was hallucinating and that he had only a few seconds before the toxin he must have

inhaledwouldfryhismindcompletely.HefumbledinhispocketandfoundoneofthesyringesRachel
Dawes,hadgivenhim.Hegotitout,butthenhehadaproblem;histhumbsandfingershadbecomeas
thickassausagesandhecouldn’tmakethemslidethecardboardsleevefromtheneedle.Hegrabbedthe
sleeveinhisteethandpulleditfreeoftheneedleandsomehowjabbedtheneedleintothebackofhis

hand.Hepressedtheplungerwithhischinandfeltmoltenfiresizzleintohisvein.

Hisfingersandthumbsreturnedtotheirnormalshapeandsize.

Somethingsangpasthisear.Flasswasstillwavinghisgunandshooting;abullethadmissedGordon

byinches.

NowFlasswasaimingatakid,ateenager,whostoodtremblingonthecurb.

“Flass—no!”Gordonshouted.“He’sunarmed.”

GordonbroughtFlassdownwithatackle.Theylockedarmsandlegsandrolledonthecobblestones.

FlassfreedhishandsandbegantochokeGordon.GordonelbowedFlassinthefaceagainandagain,
andfinallyFlass’sgriprelaxedandhedroppedoffGordon’sbodyandlaystill.GordondraggedFlassto
adrainpipeandhandcuffedhimtoit.

Gordonstoodpanting,andhehearditthen.Itbeganasamoanandbecameahowlingthatincreased

involumeuntilitseemedtofilltheuniverse.Whatkindofbeast...?AndGordonrealizedthathewas
hearingmanyvoices,thousandsofthem,wailinginmortalterror.

InthefewsecondsittookRacheltocrawltotheblondboy,sherealizedwhatmusthavehappened.She
wasn’tdrugged,buteveryoneelsewas.Thetoxinwasinthesteamandtheguyinthepolicevanmust
havecauseditwiththeoddmachine.

Theboywassobbinguncontrollably.Heavenonlyknewwhathethoughthewasseeing.

“It’sokay,it’sokay,”Rachelcooed.“Noone’sgoingtohurtyou.”

“Of course they are,” someone said behind Rachel and the boy. She turned and looked up. A dark,

massiveshapewasemergingfromthemist:asaddledhorse,draggingadeadcopfromthestirrup,with
Jonathan Crane astride the animal, wearing his burlap mask. Other shapes were gathered behind him:
inmatesfromtheasylum.

“Dr.Crane,”Rachelsaid.

“NotCrane,”themountedmanscreamed.“Scarecrow.”

Rachelwasalawyer,notapsychiatrist,butsherealizedthatCranehadgoneroundthebendinanodd

way.Heapparentlybelievedhewasthis“scarecrow.”

She picked up the boy and ran into the mist. Crane galloped after her. Rachel stumbled and hit a

telephonepole,butblunderedblindlyon.

Sheslammedintoawall.Deadend.

CranereinedhishorseonlyafewfeetfromRachelandtheboyandsaid,“Letmehelpyou.”

TheinmatescrowdedaroundCrane.

Rachelputtheboydownandreachedintohershoulderbag.

Thehorserearedback,fronthoovespawingtheair.

“Try shock therapy,” Rachel said, and pulled her Taser from her bag. She shot it at Crane and the

barbscaughtinthesackingofhismask.ElectricalsparksarcedacrossCrane’sface.Hewentlimp,and
slidfrom the saddle.The horse whinniedand galloped back theway he hadcome, dragging the dead
copfromonestirrupandCranefromtheother.

Theinmatesscattered.

Rachelkneltbytheboyandputherarmsaroundhim.

Gordonhadfoundanemptypatrolcarandhaddrivenittothenearestbridge,nowraisedand
impassable.Policeflasherswerevisibleacrosstheriver,whichmeantcopswerethere,helpwasthere.
Hekeyedthecruiser’sradioandidentifiedhimself.

The radio squawked. “We hear you.” Gordon recognized the voice of Commissioner Loeb. “What

thehell’sgoingonoverthere?”

“Weneedreinforcements,”Gordonsaidintothemicrophone.“Tacteams,SWATs,riotcops—get’em

inmasksand—”

“Gordon,allthecity’sriotpoliceareontheislandwithyou.

“Well,they’recompletelyincapacitated.”

“There’snobodylefttosendin.”

Batmanhadbeenmonitoringthepolicebandseversincehehadrocketedoutfrombehindthewaterfall
andhadheardtheexchangebetweenGordonandLoeb.Hewasnotsurprisedatthehelplessnessofthe
authoritiesinthisemergency.Heremembereddinner-tableconversationsbetweenhisfatherandguests
abouthowthecitywaswoefullyunpreparedforanythingoutoftheordinary,fromanearthquaketoa
serious civil uprising, and how sooner or later the odds would catch up with it, with a disastrous
aftermath. Joe Chill had killed Thomas Wayne before he could force the lethargic city planning
commissiontoatleaststudythesituation:anothercasualtyofRā’salGhūl’seconomicmarauding.

He saw the red lights of police flashers glancing off walls before he actually saw the cluster of

vehicles and the men standing around them. Just beyond the police group was the bridge, its halves
pointingtowardthesky,formingaveewithaforty-footgapatitsapex.

Okay,herewego.

Batman shifted and floored the accelerator. The Batmobile leaped forward, crashed through the

woodensawhorsesblockingtheentrytothebridge,andtiltedupward,gainingspeed.Itlefttheroadway
andwasflyinginahigharcacrosstheriver.

Gordonreachedthroughtheopenwindowofthecruiseranddroppedthemicrophoneontheseat.Now
what?Nohelpcoming,andasfarashecouldtell,hewastheonlysanemanleftontheisland.Noway
togetbacktothemainland,either.Sowhat’stheplan?Hideuntilthingscooldown,iftheyeverdo?

Twocirclesoflightappearedonthepavementinfrontofhim.Helookedupandoverhisshoulder

andsawheadlightscomingtowardhim—fromabove—andheardtheroarofapowerfulengine.

Heducked.Alargevehiclelandedadozenfeetaway,bouncedonceonitsoversizetires,andstopped.

Itstopslidforwardandaseatrose.Batmansteppedout.

“Nicelanding,”Gordonsaid.

Batmanmovednearandspokeinthatraspygrowl:“AnythingIshouldknowabout?”

“RachelDawesisintheresomewhere.TheNarrowsistearingitselftopieces.”

“Thisisjustthebeginning.Theyintendtodestroytheentirecity.”

“They’veincapacitatedalltheriotpolicehereontheisland.”

“Iftheyhitthewholecitywiththetoxin,there’llbenowaytostopGothamfromtearingitselfapart

inmasspanic.”

Gordonlookedattheraisedbridge.“Howcouldtheydothat?There’snowaytogetthatmachineoff

theisland.Except—”

“ThemonorailfollowsthewatermainsrightintothecentralhubbeneathWayneTower.Iftheydrive

their machine into Wayne Station, it’ll cause a chain reaction that’ll vaporize the entire city’s water
supply.”

“CoveringGothamwithafogoffeartoxin.”

Batmantiltedhisheadupandforalmostaminutegazedatthemonorailtracksoverhead.Finally,he

said,“I’mgoingtostopthemloadingthattrain.”

“Andifyoucan’t?”

Again,Batmanwassilentforlongseconds.Then:“Canyoudriveastickshift?”

BatmantossedanignitionkeytoGordon.

Theblond-hairedlittleboywastrembling,butRachelmanagedtohangontohimassheinchedherway
throughthemist.Ifshecouldjustgethiminsidesomewhere,iftheycouldonlysurvivetilldaybreak...

Shadows appeared in front of her, black shapes in the undulating white—a lot of them, twenty at

least.Oneofthemsteppedintoasplashoflightfromanearbywindowandshesawthathewaswearing
inmate’scoveralls.Sherecognizedhimimmediately:VictorZsasz.

Racheldartedtothesideofabuildingandtriedtolifttheboyontothebottomrungofafire-escape

ladder.Butshewasnottallenough.

She hugged the boy to her and stepped sideways. She stumbled over something, teetered, regained

herbalance,andlookeddownatthedeadbodyofauniformedcop.

Theinmatesdrewcloser.Oneofthemwasgiggling.

Rachel left the boy next to the wall and knelt by the body. She pulled the cop’s sidearm from its

holster...

Howdothesedamnthingswork...?

Sheremembered,andpulledbackandreleasedtheslide,andthumbedoffthesafety.

Zsaszsteppedbackintothelight.

“Goaway,Victor,”Rachelsaid.“I’mwarningyou...”

Victorandtheotherskeptcoming.

Racheltookadeepbreathandaimedthegun.Herfingertightenedonthetrigger.Shecouldn’tstop

allofthem,butshecoulddoherbest...

Araspingcommandcamefromaboveher:“Grabtheboy.”

SomethingdarkdroppedbetweenRachelandZsasz.Zsaszgruntedandfell.

Rachel grabbed the boy, and Batman grabbed Rachel. He took something from under his cape,

pointeditupward,andthentheywereshootingpastthebrickwall,overaparapet,andontoaroof.

Rachelshruggedoffherjacketandputitaroundtheboy.Shetookhishandandtheywenttowhere

Batmanwasstanding,lookingoverthecity.

Miststillroiledinthestreets,punctuatedhereandtherewithfire.Occasionally,theyheardascream

oramoan.Rachelthoughtthatthemoanswereworse.

Batmansteppedontotheparapet.

Rachelgrabbedhiscape.“Wait!Youcoulddie.”

Batmannodded.

Oncemore,Rachelwascertainthat,somehow,sheknewthisman.“Atleasttellmeyourname.”

Batman turned, hesitated, turned back to Rachel. He spoke in a normal voice, a pleasant baritone:

“It’snotwhoIamunderneath...”Hetouchedhischest.“ButwhatIdothatdefinesme.”

Ofcourse.Ithadtobehim.“Bruce.”

Heleapedtothetopoftheparapetandsteppedoffitintodarkness.

Hewantedtoconsiderwhathadjusthappened,howitalmostcertainlychangedeverythinginhislife.
But there were tasks to be accomplished and they required him to focus. He slid his hands into the
activatingpocketsofhiscapeandimmediatelythecloakbecamearigidwing,smashingintothewind,
haltinghisdownwardplunge.Hisfallbecameaglide,controlledbyhisarms.Heflewintothelabyrinth
thatwastheNarrows.Buildingsandstreetlampsflashedpast,firesseemedtoburstoutofthefog.He
glancedatthesky.Throughagapinthemist,heglimpsedstarsandorientedhimself:

Needtogoeast...

Hetiltedhisbodyandswervedinmidair.Thetipofhiscapehitthetopbranchofatreeandhespun

madly,outofcontrol,forasecond,helpless.Thenheflattenedhisbodyandwasagainflyingsmoothly.
Amanandawomancoweringinadoorwaylookedupandsawhimandscreamedinunison.

Ahead,ahugecloudofsteambillowedintotheair.Probablyfromabrokenwatermain...Batman

glidedintoit,felthimselfliftedbyanupdraft,andforamoment,experiencedagreatcalm.

WhenIemergefromthiswhiteness,Iwillbeengagedinaconflict,perhapsthelastoneofmylife.

FailureisunthinkableandyetIfearwhatsuccessmightdotome.Butfornow,forthismoment,Iam
peaceful...

Andsuddenlythecloudwasbehindhimandhewasswoopingoverarooftopandnosingdownward.

Just ahead, the roof of a blocky concrete monorail support loomed, its edges softened by the mist.
Batmandroppedhislegssohewasinaverticalpositionandusedthecapewingsasairbrakes.Helost
speed. When his boots touched the roof, he ran a few steps and stopped. He thrust his hands into the
cape pockets and the wings seemed to melt until they were only black fabric, hanging from his
shoulders.

He looked around. To his back, there was a street, and to his front, a steep drop down to buildings

arrayedalonganarrowavenuethatwounddowntotheedgeoftheriver.Onarooftoptohisleft,two
ninjaswereputtingabulkymachine—themicrowavetransmitter—intoatrain.

That’sthedevil’stoy.That’swhatIhavetodestroy...

Rā’salGhūlstoodafewyardsaway,mistswirlingaroundhim.

“Itendshere,”Batmansaid.

Rā’sraisedhiseyebrows.“You’renotdead?Youshouldbedead.”

“ButI’mnot.”

“Ihavetoadmireyourpersistence.Butthecostume...youtookmyadviceabouttheatricalityabit

literally,don’tyouthink?”

Two ninjas came around the corner of the monorail support and positioned themselves in front of

Rā’s.

“Theywon’tsaveyou,”Batmansaid.“Giveitup.Ormeetmemantoman.”

“IdoubtthatyouwouldbeabletodomeseriousharmbecauseIdoubtthatyouwouldbeabletolook

uponyetanotherfatherfigurelyingdeadbeforeyou.Butnomatter.Ideclineyourinvitationtocombat.
I’vedoneyouthehonorofkillingyouoncetodayandIcan’tsavetheworldbykillingonemanata
time.”

“YouthinkIcan’tbeatyourpawns?”

Fourmoreninjasrappeleddownfromtherailabovethem.

Batman tackled the man nearest him, and locked together, they both went over the side of the

monorailsupport.Inmidair,Batmantwisted,andahalfsecondlaterhittherooftopbelowwiththeninja
under him, cushioning his fall. As he was getting to his feet, two more ninjas landed nearby and
crouchedintocombatstances.Batmanreachedunderhiscloakand,inasinglesmoothmotion,brought
out a Batarang and spun it at one of the ninjas while he kicked another off the roof and onto a fire-
escapelanding.

Howmanymore...?Can’taffordtofightthemall.I’vegottosmashthemicrowavetransmitter...

Batman lifted his grappling gun from his belt, but before he could aim it, a length of narrow chain

wrapped around his wrist and jerked. The gun left his hand and, as it vanished into the fog, fired,
sending the monofilament and hook hissing into the darkness. Batman grabbed the chain in his other
handandpulled.Theninjawhohadthrownit,andwasstillholdingthefarend,stumbledforwardinto
Batman’sfist.

Something landed at Batman’s feet and exploded with a blinding flash and a puff of acrid gas.

Reflexively,Batmanturnedhishead,closedhiseyes,andheldhisbreathasheleapedinthedirection
from which the explosive had come. A ninja was in the act of throwing a second small bomb when
Batman smashed into him. They went over a parapet and down onto a sheet of corrugated metal that
servedasacanopyoveraparkingarea.AbeamundertheironsnappedandBatmanandtheninjaslid
onto the pavement as an iron sheet clanged beside them. Batman elbowed the ninja’s chin, knocking
himunconscious,andleveredhimselftohisfeet.

He mentally scanned his body. There was plenty of pain, but that was irrelevant. Was anything

broken?Washeincapacitatedinanyway?Apparentlynot.Thearmorinhiscostumehaddoneitsjob.

HowtogetbackuptoRā’s...Whathappenedtothegrapplinggun?

Hesawitthen,intheambientglowofthemonoraillights.Acrossthestreet:hisgun,inthehandsof

a bald, mustached man in a business suit, who was turning it over and over in his hands as though it
wereafascinatingnewtoyhecouldnotquiteunderstand.

The man would be no problem. But he was surrounded by other men and women and even a few

children,staringandshufflingoutofthemisttowardhim.

“Monster,”someonescreamed,andthemobrantowardhim.

Batmandodgedthefirstfewtoreachhim,buthisbackwastoawallandhehadnopossibleescape

route.

Ican’tharmthem.They’redrugged...theydon’tknowwhatthey’redoing...

Fingers clutched his ankles and his arms and tugged at him until Batman fell. As bodies swarmed

overhim,heheardthegrindingandhissingofbrakesfromthemonorailandthesoundofsteelwheels
turning.

Ithadtakenseveralminutestogetthemicrowavetransmitterloadedontothetrain,andanotherminute
forRā’stobecertainheunderstoodthetrain’scontrols.Whenhewassatisfied,hepushedaredlever
forward.Thetrainjerked,rattled,andbeganmoving.

AminuteafterBatmanhadvanished,Rachelfoundatrapdoorintheroofandmanagedtogetitopen.
Inside, there was a steep flight of steps. She urged the blond-haired boy onto them and together they
enteredthebuilding,anancienttenementthatsmelledofcookingodorsandother,lesspleasantsmells.
Several doors along the dimly lit hallway were open and one had been torn from its hinges. The
apartments behind them were deserted—in two, television sets were still on. But the occupants might
return,andwouldbecrazywhentheydid.SoRachelandtheboydescendedfarther,allthewaytothe
basement.Thefloorwaswet,butRachelfoundaplatformthatoncesupportedafutonleaningonitsend
againstabackwall.Strainingundertheweight,shelowereditandthensheandtheboyclimbedontop
ofit.

Theboyhadstoppedtrembling,buthiseyeswerewideandoccasionallyhegasped.Rachelputher

armsaroundhim.

Ifonlywecangetthroughthenight...Ifonlythoselunaticsdon’tfindus...

Once, Rachel had dreamed of doing grand deeds, of making the world a better place and gaining

renownintheprocess.Now,allshewantedwastosaveonesmallchild.

Thebaldmantuggedtheendsofhismustache,asthoughthatwouldmakehisbrainworkbetter,and
continuedtostaredownatthegrapplinggun.Hesqueezedthetrigger.Suddenlythewirethattrailed
fromitsmuzzleretracted,haulingathree-prongedhookfromthefog.Itsnappedagainstthegunbarrel
withsuchforcethatthemanstumbledbackward.Heyelped,spreadhisfingers,pulledhishandswide.
Thegunclatteredtothecobblestonesandthemankickeditaway.

Batmansawitlandthroughaforestoflegs.Themembersofthemobweremoaning,clawingatone

anothermorethanathim.Batmanhunchedhisshoulders,thrustouthisarmsbetweenthenearestpairof
calves,andseparatedthem.Thekidwhoownedthecalvestoppledintoseveralotherpeopleandforan
instant there was a clear area between Batman and the gun. He scuttled forward, flattened, closed his
fist.Hehadthegun.Herolledontohisback,liftedandaimed,andshot.

Thegrapplinghooksoaredoverthetopofthemonorail,reacheditsapogee,dropped,andcaughton

theairventofthetrain’slastcar.

ThemonofilamentwenttautasthetrainmovedandyankedBatmantohisfeet.

Twooftheninjasgrabbedhim.

Thetrain’sspeedincreased.

Batmanwaspulledfromthegraspoftheninjasandlefttheground.

Howthehelldoesthisthingopen?GordonstoodbesideBatman’scar,orwhateveritwas,tryingtoget
inside.Hehadakey,sure,buttherewasnokeyhole.Histhumbtightenedonthekeyandtheroofofthe
vehicleslidforward.

Oh.That’showitworks.Somekindofmicrowavetransmission.

Gordonclimbedinandtheroofslidclosedabovehim.Heputhishandsonthewheel,triedthepedals

withhisfeet,scannedthedashboard.Hehadnoideawhatmostofthesebuttons,levers,anddialswere
for,butthebasicoperationofthe...car?—thatseemedconventionalenough.

Therewasakeyholeonthesteeringcolumn,justlikeonthecarhiswifedrove.Okay,good.Putthe

keyinthekeyhole,giveitatwist—

Theenginerumbledtolife.

Gordon depressed the clutch and ran the stick through its various positions. Six forward gears and

reverse.Prettyfancy,butnottooexotic.Okay,timetogo.Heshiftedintofirst,releasedtheclutch—

The enormous rear tires began to spin and smoke, but the vehicle did not move, which seemed to

indicatethatthefrontwheelswerelocked,somehow.Therehadtobeabrakereleasehandle.Gordon
gropedunderthedashboardandfoundsomething.Hetuggedandpushedand—

He was at the other end of the block, heading straight for a wall. How long had it taken? Two

seconds? Three? He stomped what he hoped was the brake pedal and jerked the wheel. The vehicle
skiddedaroundacornerandimmediatelyacceleratedagain.

Cripes!Thisbabywouldtakesomegettingusedto...

Steeringawkwardlywithonehand,hegotouthiswalkie-talkiewiththeotherandkeyedit.

“ThisisGordon,”hesaid.“Lowerthesouthbridge.I’llbethereinaminuteortwo.”

Rā’s insured that the train was running properly and would continue to do so without any further
attention from him. He moved away from the controls to the microwave transmitter and activated it.
Themachinehummed.

Commissioner Loeb relayed Gordon’s request and watched the two halves of the bridge’s roadway
descendandmeet.Forwhatevergoodthatwoulddo.

Hepulledbackthesleeveofhisuniformcoatandsquintedattheluminousdialofhiswatch.Almost

two-thirtyinthe

A.M.

He’dbeenstandingonthisgod-forsakenbridgesince...what?Sincemidnight.

Standingherewithabunchofuniformsandacoupleofplainclothesguysandwaitingforsomethingto
happen.Butnothingwasgoingon,eitherhereor,asfarashecouldsee,attheotherendoftheraised
roadway,intheNarrows.Maybenothingwouldhappen.Maybehewaswastinghistimewhenhecould
beathomegettinghiseighthours.’Causeheneededhiseighthours.Hedidn’tgethiseighthours,the
next day he wasn’t worth a thing. And where was Gordon? It’d been . . . what?—fifteen minutes, at
least,sincehe’dheardfromthesergeant.

Hefeltsomethingthroughthesolesofhisshoes.Somekindofshaking.Andheheardarumbling.

“Commissioner, look!” one of the uniforms said, and Loeb looked in the direction the cop’s finger

waspointing:themonorail,whichranabovethebridgeandwayabovetheriver.Themistwasgetting
brighterandthatwasbecause...Theheadlampofatrainwasshiningthroughit.Whichmeantthetrain
wasmoving.Comingthisway.

Loeb got a pair of binoculars from the nearest patrol car and put them to his eyes and twisted the

focus wheel until the monorail and the train were sharp in the lenses. Yeah, the train was coming, all
right,pickingupspeed,too.Butwhatwasthatbehindit?

Aman?

Thefirstfewsecondshadbeenbad.Thefirstfewsecondshadnearlykilledhim.Heclutchedthegun
andwaspulledupwardtowardtherimofthetrackbedthatoverhungthestreet,hisfacescrapingalong
arivet-studdedbeam.Heestimatedthathewasalreadymovingattwentymilesanhour.Ifhehittherim
atthisspeed,itwouldeithertakeoffhisheadorknockhimtothecobblestonesbelow.Eitherway,he
wouldbedead.

He managed to put both his feet against the steel beam and push. His body flew outward and he

missedthetrackbedbymaybetwoinches.

Onehurdlepassed.

Hewasbeingdraggedbehindtherearofthetrain,bumpingalongthetracks.Hiscostumewassome

protection—ordinary clothing would have been shredded by now—but it would not last indefinitely.
Andsoonerorlater,oneofthesebumpswouldsnapabone.

Thetrainwasoverthebridge.Batmancouldseelightsgleamingontheriverunderneathit.

He squeezed the trigger of the grappling gun and the line began to retract, pulling him toward the

train.

Thetrain’sspeedincreasedandBatman’sbodyleftthetracksand,foracoupleofseconds,trailedthe

trainlikesomekindofbizarrestreamer.ThenthelinefinishedretractingandBatmanwasclutchingthe
rounded end of the car, looking through a window at rows of empty seats and empty cardboard cups
rollingonthefilthyfloor.

Batmanreachedupandcurledhisglovedfingersaroundthetinymetalliprunningaroundthetopof

thecar.Notmuchtohangonto.Butmaybeenough.

Asthetrainpassedoverhead,Loebdrewhisgun.Thenherealizedthathehadabsolutelynouseforit
and reholstered it. And then the fire hydrant next to him exploded and a hard gush of water knocked
him flat on his back. He rolled over onto his hands and knees and saw a manhole cover flipping end
over end and sprinklets of water arcing up from cracks in the pavement. Across the street, another
hydrantexploded.

JeffBenedictandLonCalterwerebusyagain.Forawhile,aftertheruckusattheNarrows,thingshad
quieteddown.Lonhadcalledthebosses,allofthem,andthey’dallpromisedtoberightdown,butthat
wasfortyminutesagoandnonehadshownyet.Nosurprise.Mostofthemlivedinthenorthernsuburbs

—longdrive.

JeffaskedLonifhehadanyideawhathadcausedtheruckusandLonsaidthathe’dseennothinglike

itinhisthirtyyearswiththeWaterDepartment.Butinthemorning,theengineerswouldgetitfigured
out,andanyway,theworstseemedtobeover.Course,there’dbealotofpeopleintheNarrowswithout
water,butthatwaslifeinGothamCity...

Thenitstartedagain.Thecontrolboardlitupandtheemergencyalarmclanged.JeffandLonranto

theirmonitors.

“What’sthat?”Jeffasked.

“Thepressure’smovingalongthemains...blowingallthepipes,”Lonsaid.“Somekindofchain

reaction.”

“Comingtowardus.”

Batmanjumped,andthatgavehimenoughaltitudetogethispalmsontothetopofthetraincar,andhe
straightenedhisarmsandslidonhischestuntilhisentirebodywasonthesilveryroof.

Thetrainwasstillaccelerating.Hesawageyserofwatershootupalongsidethetrackbedandknew

pipesandhydrantswereexplodingbelow.

Thetrainroundedabendandcantedsharplytotheleft.Batmanrecenteredhisweightandregained

hisbalance.

Rā’swouldbeinthefirstcar,sothat’swherehehadtogo.Andfast.Witheachpassingsecond,more

toxicspraywasreleasingintotheair,tobebreathedinbyinnocentmen,women,andchildren—todrive
theminsane.

LonswiveledhischairawayfromthecontrolboardandstaredatJeff.Hiseyeswerewide,hismouth
slack,hisentireexpressiononeofhelplesspanic.

“What?”Jeffdemanded.

“Pressure’sbuildingunderneathus.Wegotta...hell,Idon’tknow.Wegottaevacuatethebuilding.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause Wayne Tower sits right on the central hub. If that pressure reaches us, the water supply

acrossthewholecitywillblow.”

Jeffglancedatthenearestpressuregauge.Theneedlewasalreadyintheredzoneandmovinghigher.

“Let’sgetouttahere,”Lonsaid,standingandgrabbinghisjacketfromwhereithungonthebackofa

chair.“We’resittingonthehub—andshe’sgonnablowbig.”

GordonstruggledtokeepcontrolofBatman’svehicle.Roundingacorner,hemisjudgedthespeed-
distanceratioandsideswipedaparkedSUV.

“Sorry,”hemuttered.

HeswervedontotheSouthBridge,gratefulthatLoebhadmanagedtogetitlowered,andinacouple

ofseconds,spedoffitandontothestreetontheotherside.HepassedLoebandaclusterofcops,allof
whomweremillingaroundtheircarsaimlessly,allofwhomwerewet.Sothey’dundoubtedlybreathed

inthetoxinandinaminute,maybethey’dbehowlinglunatics.Well,hecouldn’tworryaboutthem.He
hadtofollowthedamntrain,whichwasnogreatfeat,becausefromhere,therewasonlyoneplaceit
couldgo.Tothecenterofthecity.ToWayneTower.

The train sped over a major intersection, and at the periphery of his vision, Batman saw a manhole
coverflippingendoverend.Windhowledinhisears,thesoundminglingwiththescreechandclatterof
steelwheelsonsteelrails,andthecarswayedunderhisfeet.Ahead,hecouldseethesilhouetteofthe
familiar Gotham City skyline, black against the moonlit blue of the sky, with Wayne Tower dwarfing
the other skyscrapers. At this speed, the train would pull into the Tower station in a minute or two.
BruceWaynewasnoengineer,andsoneitherwasBatman,buthewasfamiliarenoughwiththecity’s
infrastructuretorealizethatRā’salGhūl’smachinewouldbloweverymainwithinatwenty-mileradius
ifitgotclosetothecomplexoftunnelsundertheTower.

Therewouldbeanunimaginableepidemicofinsanity.Thecostinhumanlivesandhumansuffering

wouldbeincalculable.

Heran,jumpedtoanothercar,ranandjumped...

Therewasatunneldirectlyahead.

Batmanflattenedhimselfonthecarasittorebeneathaconcretearch.

Hestood,swayed,continuedrunningandjumping.

IntheWayneguesthouse,Alfredsathunched,acoldcupofEarlGreyteabetweenhispalms,wearing
hisfavoritegarment,avelvetbathrobegiventohimasaChristmaspresentbyMarthaWaynedecades
ago.Itwaswornandfrayednow,anditsrichscarletcolorhadfadedtoablandpink,butitwasstillhis
favorite. He was staring at a television tuned to the local all-news channel and on the kitchen table
besidehimweretworadios,ashort-wavetunedtothepolicebandsandanordinaryreceivertunedtoa
news station. He had pieced together some of what was happening. He knew that Master Bruce had
eluded the police and that something hellish was occurring at the Narrows. But the reports were
maddeningly incomplete. He felt, in his bones, that Bruce Wayne was still alive, but he was by no
meanscertain.

Batmanreachedtheleadcar,swayedforamomentasheconsideredhisoptions,anddecidedthathe
couldnotaffordtowastetimestrategizing.Hehadtooperateinthemoment,lettinginstinctguidehim.

Hemighthaveonlysecondsleft.

Hesatontheedgeofthecarandswunghislegsbackward.Hisbootsstruckashatterproofwindow

and knocked it from its frame. As it dropped to one of the seats, Batman was already sliding and
twistingthroughtheemptyframeandlandinginsidethecar.Helandedinacrouchonthefloorfacing
thefrontofthetrain.

Themicrowavetransmitterblockedtheaisle,hummingandvibratingslightly.BehinditstoodRā’sal

Ghūl.

“You’restillnotdead,”Rā’ssaid.

“Obviouslynot.Wecanendthisnow,Rā’s.There’snoneedforfurtherbloodshed.”

“Oh,youarewrong,Bruce.There’sanenormousneed.”

“I’llstopyou.”

“No.Youwon’t.Becausetostopmeyouwouldhavetokillmeandyouwillnotdothat.”

“You’resure?”

“Yes. You could not stand to see another father die.” Rā’s edged around the machine and slid his

sword from the cane. “But I have seen many of my children die. Another one won’t make much
differencetome.”

Rā’sadvanced,theswordinonehand,thecaneintheother.Hefeintedwiththeswordandswungthe

cane at Batman’s head. Batman trapped it in one of his scallops, twisted, and the cane went spinning
overhisshoulder.

Rā’s thrust the sword point at Batman’s chest. Batman pivoted and the steel slipped past his chest,

grazinghiscostume.Rā’skicked.BatmansidesteppedandRā’skickedagain,strikingBatman’ship.As
Batmanstumbled,tryingtoregainhisfooting,Rā’sarcedthebladedownwardtowardBatman’shead,
butBatmancrossedhiswristsandtrappedthesteelinthescallopsofbothgauntlets.

“Familiar,”Rā’ssaid.“Don’tyouhaveanythingnew?”

“How about this?” Batman yanked his arms in opposite directions and the blade snapped in two.

Then Batman drove the palm of his right hand into Rā’s’s chest, and as Rā’s stumbled backward,
BatmanjumpedontoaseatandpastRā’stothetrain’scontrols.

HelookedoutthefrontwindowandsawWayneTowerloomingahead.Hegrabbedthebrakelever

butbeforehecouldpullitback,Rā’s’scanewasthrustintothemechanism,jammingit.BeforeBatman
couldfreeit,Rā’sswunghisclenchedfistatthebackofBatman’shead,bouncingitoffthewindshield.
Rā’s struck again and Batman fell and rolled onto his back and Rā’s was straddling him, his hands
clenchedaroundBatman’sneck,histhumbspressingintoBatman’sthroat.

“Don’tbeafraid,Bruce...youhatethiscityasmuchasIdo,butyou’rejustanordinarymanina

cape.That’swhyyoucan’tfightinjusticeandthat’swhyyoucan’tstopthistrain.”

“Whosaidanythingaboutstoppingit?”

Atfourinthemorning,ithadn’tmadeanydifferencethatGordonhadruneveryredlightbetweenthe
Narrows and downtown Gotham. Eight minutes later, he was racing along beneath the monorail. He
passedthespeedingtrainandpulledaheadofit.TheWayneTowerstationwasjusttwoblocksahead,so
whateverhewasgoingtodohehadtodonow.Ifhe’dunderstoodBatman’sinstructionscorrectlyandif
everythingworkedasBatmanhadpredicted,Gordonwasabouttobreakthelaw,bigtime.

Hewasscared,butsowhat?Beingscaredwasnothingnew.

GordontriedtorememberwhattheBatmanhadtoldhimabouttheweaponsonboardthevehicle.He

looked for the buttons that indicated where the guns were and eventually found them. He pushed a
button and squeezed a trigger. Two missiles shot past the monorail support and exploded inside a
parking garage. Gordon cursed himself for not aiming first and steered the Batmobile closer to the
monorailsupport.

Aiming as best he could, he depressed the trigger again and fired. This time the missiles hit their

target.Gordonexhaledandleanedbackinhisseat.

Ashewatched,thesupportcrumbledandthemonorailtrackssmashedintothestreet.

ThetraincarshookandRā’s’sgrasprelaxedforaninstant.Helookedthroughthewindshieldatthe
track,twistedandsmoking.

“You’ll never learn to mind your surroundings,” Batman said, “as much as your opponent.” He

slammedhisrightgauntletintoRā’s’sface.Rā’stoppledsidewaysandBatmanscrambledtohisfeet.He
grabbed Rā’s’s hair with his left hand and pulled a Batarang from under his cloak with his right. He
raisedtheweaponoverhishead;asingledownwardswingwouldburyitinRā’s’sskull.

Rā’ssmiled.“Ah.Youhavefinallylearnedtodowhatisnecessary.”

Batmanflungtheweaponatthewindshield.Theglasscrackedandthenbroke.“Iwon’tkillyou...”

Batman pulled a small mine from his belt and threw it at the back door of the car. There was an

explosionandthedoorwasgone.

“ButIdon’thavetosaveyou.”

Batmanmovedtotheothersideofthemicrowavetransmitterandthrusthishandsintothepocketsof

hiscape.Itstiffenedandbecameawing.

Therewerenocameras,nonewscrews.Buttherewerethreeeyewitnesses:JeffBenedict,LonCalter,
andJamesGordon.JeffandLonhadjustlefttheTowerandwereracingtowardwhereLon’sminivan
was parked when the monorail support disintegrated, scattering debris in all directions. Not knowing
whatelsetodo,utterlybewildered,theysimplystoppedintheirtracksandwaitedforwhateverwould
happennext.

Gordoncouldn’tbelievewhathewasseeing.Theexplosionthattookoutthemonorailalsotookoutone
of the two streetlamps in the area, leaving most of the block in heavy shadow, with most of the
illuminationcomingfromthemoon.

ThisiswhatGordonthoughthesaw:

Thebackdoorofthetrainshootingoutandhittingthefrontofthecarbehinditjustasthewindows

oneithersideofitdisintegratedintoahundredfragmentsandsprayedoutward.Theuncouplingofthe
frontcarsfromtherestofthetram—causedbytheexplosion?—andthenamanflyingoutofthetwisted
door frame, a giant wing on his back lifting him high into the air as the two front cars derailed and
careenedofftherailbedanddippeddownintotheplaza,shatteringconcreteandmarble,raisingclouds
ofwhitedust.

Thenthecarexploded.

Gordon,tremblingwithshockandexcitement,wastoostunnedtoreact.Hesimplywatched.

Thethreeofthem—Jeff,Lon,andGordon—weremomentarilyblindedbytheflamesthatfollowed

thefinalexplosion.ButJeffandLonwereprettysure,andGordonwascertain,thattheywitnessedone
final,bizarrething:agiantbat,soaringabovetheroof-tops,plainlyvisibleagainstthemoon,butonly
foramoment.

Batman had caught a thermal that lifted him a couple of hundred feet into the air. He looked down.
TherewasafiregoutingupthewalloftheTowerandinithecouldseethesilhouetteofthemonorail
car.Tothesouth,hesawtheflashingredlightsoffireenginesandheheardthedistantwailofsirens,
mingledwiththesighingofthewind.

Heshiftedhiscenterofgravityandbeganhislong,slowdescent.Ifhecalculatedcorrectly,andcould

maintaintheshallowangleofhisglide,hewouldlandontheaccessroadnorthofthefreeway,ashort
distancefromWayneManor.

Theskywasbeginningtolightenintheeast.Falsedawn,buttherealitemwouldappearverysoon.

He touched a button on his belt, activating a transmitter in his cowl, and told Alfred where he

expectedtobeintenminutes.

Thenherelaxedandallowedhimselftoenjoytheearlymorningair,thegentlemotionofhisflight.

Herememberedinstructiongivenatthemonastery:Knowyouremotionalstateatalltimesinorder

thatitnotdeceiveyourintellect.

So what was he feeling? Exhaustion, sure. But emotionally? He couldn’t find any distinct emotion

withinhim.Maybelater?

Theearthwasrisinguptoembracehim,andthatwasenough,fornow.

GordonstoodnexttotheBatmobile.Thegutternearesttohimwasfullofrushingwater,asthoughthe
citywereinthemiddleofamajorstorm,Buttheskywasclear.Sothewaterwascomingfromburst
pipes,hundredsofburstpipes.

What was left of the fallen monorail cars was burning with a hard, blinding, blue-white flame.

Gordonhadnoreasontocontinuelookingatit,sohewenttolookforhelp.

DuringtheshortridetotheWayneproperty,BatmanusedthecarphonetocallLuciusFoxand,inhis
ordinaryvoice,issuesomeinstructions.Althoughitwasalmostfiveinthemorning,Foxsoundedfully
alert,andwhenBrucehadfinishedthecall,Foxhadsoundedtrulydelighted.

AlfredparkedthelimonexttotheguesthouseandBatmanallowedhisoldfriendtohelphiminside.

First,Alfredmadetea,acupofEarlGreyforbothofthem.Nextcametheordealofremovingthe

costume.Together,theymanagedtogetitoffandAlfredsurveyedthebruisesonBruce’sflesh.

“Stimulatingnight?”heasked.

“Ithaditsmoments.”

Brucemovedhisarms,legs,touchedhistoes,androlledhisheadaroundonhisneck;nothingseemed

to be broken. But, under Alfred’s prompting, Bruce admitted to being in pain. Alfred was pretty sure
that he could persuade Dr. Harkins to prescribe a sedative. Perhaps that young Wayne wastrel had
tumbledfromapolopony?

“Nodrugs,”Brucesaid,andthatclosedthediscussion.

William Earle arrived at Wayne Tower at his usual time, seven-thirty. He stepped from his limo and
pausedtosurveythedamagecausedbythemonorailaccident.Orwhateverthehellitwas.Thepoliticos

he’d talked to didn’t seem to know their asses from Christmas . . . yeah, that was different—and the
reportersandcopsweren’tbeinghelpful,either.Butitwasbad.Theremainsofthecarshadbeenhauled
away,buttheresureashellwasdamage.Thiswholesideofthebuildingmighthavetoberedone,at
least up to the fifteenth story; what wasn’t cracked and falling apart was blackened by fire. The
sidewalks would have to be replaced, but maybe the city would handle that, and the monorail was a
totallosstoo,butmaybeitcouldstaybroken...whorodethedamnthinganymore,anyway?

Heenteredthebuilding,whichstankofsmoke,ignoringthe“Goodmornings”hegotfromvarious

employees, rode his private elevator to the forty-ninth floor, strode to the boardroom, ignoring more
greetings,andtossedhiscoattoJessica,whostoodbythereceptiondesk.

“Mr.Earle,themeeting’salreadystarted,”Jessicasaid.

“What?”

Without waiting for an answer, Earle flung open the boardroom door. Lucius Fox was standing in

Earle’splaceattheheadofthetable,asheafofpapersinhishand.Hisbowtie,today,wasbrightgreen.

“Fox,whatareyoudoinghere?”Earlesnapped.“Iseemtorememberfiringyou.”

“Youdid,”Foxdrawled.“ButIfoundanewjob.”Foxinspectedhispapersforafewsecondsbefore

adding,“Yours.Didn’tyougetthememo?”

Earle’smouthbecameastraightlineandhiseyesnarrowed.“Bywhoseauthority?”

Foxleanedoveranintercomandsaid,“Jessica,putMr.Wayneontheline,please.”

TherewasthescratchofstaticandthenatinnyversionofBruce’svoice:“Yes?”

“Whatonearthmakesyouthinkyouhavetheauthoritytodecidewhorunsthiscompany,Bruce?”

“ThefactthatI’mtheowner?”

“Whatareyoutalkingabout?WayneEnterpriseswentpublicweeksago.”

“AndIboughtmostoftheshares.Throughvariouscharitablefoundations,trusts,andsoforth.Look,

it’sallabittechnical,buttheimportantthingis,mycompany’sfutureissecure.Right,Mr.Fox?”

“Rightyouare,Mr.Wayne,”Luciusdrawled.HelookedatEarle,andgrinned.

Inthebackofabrand-newlimo,Bruceswitchedoffthephone.Alfred,driving,asked,“Haveyouseen
themorningpapers?Batmanmayhavemadethefrontpage,butBruceWaynegotpushedtopageeight.
..”

BruceopenedacopyofthemorningeditionoftheGothamTimes.AsAlfredhadsaid,astoryabout

Brucewasonpageeight,headlined:

DRUNKENBILLIONAIREBURNSDOWNHOUSE.

“‘Drunken’seemsabitstrong.‘Woozy,’maybe.‘Tipsy,’even.But‘drunken’?Remindmetosendan

outragedlettertotheeditor.”

“ShouldIreally?”

“No.”

“Youarebecomingabitofafigureoffun,MasterBruce.‘Billionaireklutz’isoneofthesobriquets

beingappliedtoyou.”

“Good.”

AlfredturnedintotheWaynedrivewayandstoppedattheguesthouse.

“Let’sgoonuptothemanor,”Brucesaid.“Orwhat’sleftofit.”

Theremainsoftheonce-imposinghomewereevenuglierinthemorningsunlightthantheyhadbeen

in the semidarkness of early dawn, when the last of the firemen had splashed water on the final
smoldering embers and gone away. Nothing was left of the superstructure except a few blackened
timbersandstonewallsontwosides.Mostofthefoundationwasstillintact,buriedundertonsofash.

Rachel’slittlecarwasparkedaroundtheback,atthekitchengarden.Bruceleftthelimoandwentto

where Rachel was staring at the remnants of the greenhouse, mostly bent metal framework. Broken
glasscrunchedunderBruce’sshoesandRachelturnedtogreethim.

“Goodtoseeyou—again,”shesaid.

“Andyou.”

Theywalkedpastthegreenhousetothewell.

“RememberthedayIfell?”Bruceasked.

“Ofcourse.Iwassoscaredforyou.I’vespentalotoftimebeingscaredforyou.”

“Rachel,I’m...”

“Bruce,I’msorry.ThedayChilldied,Isaidterriblethings.”

“Truethings.Justiceisaboutmorethanrevenge.”

“Ineverstoppedthinkingaboutyou...aboutus...whenIheardyouwereback,Istartedtohope..

.”

Rachel stood on her toes and kissed Bruce on the lips. Then, abruptly, she pulled away. “That was

beforeIfoundoutaboutthemask.”

“Batman’sjustasymbol,Rachel.”

Rachel brushed her fingertips across Bruce’s cheek. “This is your mask. Your real face is the one

criminalsnowfear.ThemanIloved—themanwhovanished—henevercamebackatall.”

Brucetookbothherhandsinhisandstoodsilentlylookingintohereyes.

“Butmaybehe’sstilloutthere,somewhere,”Rachelsaid.“Maybeoneday,whenGothamnolonger

needsBatman,I’llseehimagain.”

Brucereleasedherhandsandturnedtowardtheruinsofthehouse.“AsIlaythere,fireandsmokeall

aroundme,Iknew...Icouldsenseit.”

“What?”

“ThatevenifIsurvived,thingswouldneverbethesame.”

“Well,youprovedmewrong.”

“Aboutwhat?”

“Yourfatherwouldbeproudofyou.JustlikeIam.”

Rachel moved slowly toward her car. Bruce started to follow her, but stopped when his foot hit

somethingburiedinrubble.Hepickeditup:hisfather’sstethoscope.

Rachelopenedthedoortohercar,pointedtotheruins,andcalledtoBruce:“Whatwillyoudo?”

“I’vejustthisminutedecided.I’mgoingtorebuilditjustthewayitwas.Brickforbrick.”

Rachelwaved,gotintohercar,anddroveaway.

AlfredwasstandingatBruce’sshoulder.“Justthewayitwas,MasterBruce?”

“Yes.Why?”

“Ithoughtwemighttaketheopportunitytomakesomeimprovementstothefoundation.”

“Inthesoutheastcorner?”

“Precisely,sir.”

Gordonsteppedfromthepatrolcar,turnedtothankthecopwhohadgivenhimaliftfromheadquarters,
andwatchedthecruiser’staillightsdwindleandvanish.

Hetrudgeduptheshortwalktohisfrontporch,bone-weary.Ithadbeenalongday—weren’tthey

all?Butatleasthefelthewasaccomplishingsomething.Intheweeksincethemonorailincidentand
themassivedisruptionofthecity’sinfrastrucure,Gordonandhiscopshadrestoredorderandthepublic
worksguyshadcompletedthemostnecessaryrepairstothewatersystem.Prettysoon,everyonewho
wanted one would have an injection of the serum Rachel Dawes had given him and the nutso stuff
CraneandRā’salGhūlhadputintotheairwouldn’teveragainbeathreat.Everydruglabinthestate
washelpingturnoutbatchesoftheserumandmostoftheseverelydamagedcitizenshadalreadybeen
injected and were returning to their sane selves. Those who had been under the influence of Crane’s
hallucinogen the longest would need years of therapy, but there were only small numbers of those.
There were also a couple of hundred people dead, but nothing could be done about them except to
mourn.EventheNarrowsareawasreturningtonormal,oratleastas“normal”astheNarrowsevergot.
Gordon had never exactly been a Mr. Sunshine, but he felt cautiously optimistic. Maybe things were
lookingup.

Ashadowdetacheditselffromthedarknessatthesideofthehouseandsaid,“Hello.”

“IwaswonderingwhenI’dseeyouagain...Batman—isthatwhatyoureallywanttobecalled?”

“Ifyouhavetocallmeanything.”

“It’sjustthatIfeelsillysayingit,butokay,Batman...what’sonyourmind?”

“Hasyourforensicsteamfinishedexaminingthemonorailcar?”

“Yeah,they’redone.Igotthereportthisafternoon.”

“And?”

“Well, everything’s inconclusive. They still aren’t sure what made it burn so hot. Something in the

machinethatguy...Rā’salGhūl,isit?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway, there was something in the machine that caused the extreme heat. Most everything was

meltedtoslag.”

“Humanremains?”

“Nobody,notevenanybones.ButlikeIsay,nothing’sconclusive...”

Gordonstoppedtalkingwhenherealizedthathewastalkingtohimself.

BatmanperchedonaWayneTowerledgeandsurveyedthecitybelowhim;itsgeometricregularityand

the steep walls and narrow streets for which Gotham was famous, the butt of a thousand jokes on
televisiontalkshowsandaperversesourceofpridetolocals.Therewereonlyafewlights,thislate,but
inGothamsomebodywasalwaysgoingsomewhere,doingsomething.

Helikedtocomeuphereandlurk,unseen,andthink.Someday,hemightfigureoutwhy.

Tonight, he was thinking about the conversation he’d had with James Gordon an hour earlier. No

surprises.He’dseenthatblue-whitefire—heknewitmusthavedestroyedanythinginsidethemonorail
car.

Buthewasnotsatisfied.

Almostcertainly,Rā’shadperishedinthefire.

Almost.

Butifhehadn’t?

ThebodyofCarlFinch,thedistrictattorney,hadbeenfoundatthedocks,andtoeveryone’ssurprise,
RachelDaweswasappointedtoreplacehim.Shewas,atthirty,theyoungestD.A.inthecity’shistory.

Foralmostamonth,Batmanhadbeenanemptycostumehanginginacavebelowtheblackenedruins
of a once-grand house. Bruce Wayne stayed away from both the cave and the suit, and also from
Gotham City. He kept to the guesthouse he shared with Alfred and passed the weeks reading books
recommendedbySandraFlanders.

Finally,onenightjustbeforemidnight,Brucelefttheguesthouseand,bythelightofagibbousmoon

andanelectriclanternhecarried,pickedhiswaythroughtheremainsofWayneManoruntilhecameto
thesecretentrancetothecavern.

Fromanupstairswindow,AlfredwatchedBrucecrossthelawnand,aftersomehesitation,followed

him.

When Alfred came to the bottom of the winding staircase, he found Bruce staring at the Batman

costume,whichwasilluminatedbythelantern.

“Haveyoudecided?”Alfredasked.

“Aboutwhat?”Brucegesturedtothecostume.“Him?Bringhimbacktolifeorlethimjointheurban

legends?No,Ihaven’t.Hecouldbeuseful,andmaybehe’stheonlywayIcanbeuseful.”

“Hardly,MasterBruce.Yourphilanthropies,youreffortsonbehalfofeducation...”

“Allgoodthings.Butnotenough.Notenoughforme.IneedsomethingmoreandBatmanjustmay

beit.Anythoughts?”

“Thecourseyoucontemplateisdangerous,butyouknowthat.Indeed,dangerispartoftheattraction.

What’sinterestingaboutitis,itprovidesanoutletforyourcreativity.”

“Afraidnot,Alfred.WeWaynesaren’tartsytypes—”

“Onthecontrary.Inheryouth,yourmotherplayedclassicalpiano.”

“Cometothinkofit,shementionedthatonce—”

“Andyourfather’sardentsupportoftheartsindicatedaloveofthem.Yourcreativeimpulsehasbeen

submerged,butithasalwaysexisted,waitingfortheproperopportunity.”

“AndBatmanwasit,huh?”

“I believe so. What you have created is akin to architecture. It has a practical aspect, but also an

aestheticone.AndIimagineitgivesyougreatsatisfaction—”

“Oh,comeon!”

“YoudescribedtheexcitementyoufeltrunningovertherooftopsafteryourburglaryandIsaw you

whenyoureturnedherewithMs.Dawes.Youwereamanexhilarated.”

“Okay,IguessIwas.SoIshouldputonthecostumeagain?”

“I’m certain you will, regardless of what I may advise. I ask only this, that you be aware of the

dangers.”

“Anydangersinparticular,otherthantheobviousones?”

Alfredstareddownatthefloorwhileanswering.“Thegreatestdanger,Ithink,isthatyoumaynotbe

abletorelinquishyourcreationwhenyoushould.You’reyoungnow,butyouwon’talwaysbe.Youwill
reachanagewhenyou’llbeabitslower,notquiteasagile,norasstrong.Then,youwilleitherhaveto
giveupBatmanandpursueyourgoalsbymorequietmeansor...”

“Orwhat,Alfred?Die?”

“Orbegrievouslyinjured,orhumiliated...thereareanumberofmelancholypossibilities.”

“Thankyou,”Brucesaid,andtookthecostumefromitshanger.

Winter came early to Gotham City that year. By Thanksgiving, the days were dark and the nights
unremittingly cold. There had been no heavy snowfall, not yet, but flurries were common and the
frequentrainwasusuallymixedwithsleet.

EveryoneanticipatedawhiteChristmas.

At eleven-thirty, on the night of December first, James Gordon stood on the roof of Central Police

Headquarters,sippingcoffeefromacardboardcupnexttoagiantspotlightwithametalstencilofabat
boltedacrossitslens.Itsbeamwasdirectedtowardtheroilinggraycloudsandthefuzzybatshapewas
intermittentlyvisibleonthem.

GordonheardaflutteringandthenBatmanwasontheothersideofthelight.Hereachedoutwitha

glovedforefingerandtappedthestencil.

“Nice,”hegrowled.

“Couldn’tfindanymobbossestostraptothelight.”

Gordonswitchedoffthelight.

“Well,Sergeant?”Batmanasked.

“It’s lieutenant now. Loeb had to promote me. And he finally officially disbanded the task force

huntingyou.Amazingwhatsavingacitycandoforyourimage.”Gordoncrushedhisemptycupand
tosseditintoatrashbarrel.“You’vestartedsomething.Bentcopsrunningscared,hopeonthestreets..
.”

Gordonstoppedspeaking.

“There’sa‘but’coming,isn’tthere?”Batmanasked.

“But . . . there’s a lot of weirdness out there right now . . . The Narrows is lost. We still haven’t

pickedupCraneandsomeoftheArkhaminmateshefreed.”

“Youwill.Gothamwillreturntonormal.”

“Willit?Whatabouttheescalation?”

“Escalation?”

“Westartcarryingsemi-automatics,theybuyautomatics.WestartwearingKevlar,they buy armor-

piercingrounds.”

“And?”

“And...you’rewearingamaskandjumpingoffrooftops.”Gordonfishedinhisbreastpocketand

pulledoutaclearplasticevidencebag.“Takethisguy...armedrobbery,doublehomicide...”

Batmantookthebag.Init,hecouldseeaplayingcard,aJoker.

“Leavesacallingcard,”Gordonsaid.“Gotatastefortheatrics,justlikeyou.”

“I’lllookintoit.”

“Ineversaidthankyou,bytheway.”

“Andyou’llneverhaveto.”

It had been a hectic fall. Bruce and Alfred had to do the work of sealing off the cave themselves; no
hiredworkmancouldbetrustednottobetoocuriousaboutthevastcavernunderneaththegreenlawns
oftheWayneproperty.Alfredhadmadeastudyoftheartofmasonryandwhathewasnotabletodoin
termsofphysicallaborhemorethancompensatedforwithmeticulousplanningandexecution.When,
after a month, the work was done, Bruce called in architects and contractors and began the task of
buildinganexactreplicaofthemansionthathadbeendestroyedbyfire.

Thebuildershadgottenthefoundationlaidandpartoftheframingupwhenworkwashaltedbythe

worst snowfall in ten years. Everyone agreed that winter was not the time for building and the job
shouldberesumedinearlyMarch.

BruceWaynedrovehisLamborghiniintothecityseveraltimesamonth,oftenmanagingtoputadent

in one of the fenders, and was seen filling the car’s shotgun seat with an assortment of models and
actresses. None rode in the Lamborghini for more than a single evening, but all received lavish gifts
soonafterleavingit.

AlfredflewtoEnglandtospendChristmaswithhisnieceandreturnedNewYear’sEve,justaheadof

whatKassieCanetoldherviewerswas“MamaNaturedumpingrecordamountsofthewhitestuffon
pooroldGotham.”

BynoononNewYear’sDaythesnowfallhadfinallystopped.Brucetrudgedtotheskeletonofhis

home-to-be, plowing through waist-deep snow, carrying a sledgehammer. He smashed through one of
themasonrysealsheandAlfredhadplacedoverthesmallestaccesstothecaveand,shiningapenlight
aheadofhim,descendedthewindingstaircase.Hefoundwhathewaslookingforandcarrieditupthe
stepsandout,beyondthekitchenyardandthegreenhouse.

From his room in the guesthouse, Alfred watched Bruce get a pickax and shovel left in the

greenhouse by the builders and begin clearing snow from an area next to his father’s grave. Then he
usedthepicktobreakthroughthefrozendirtandbegandiggingahole.

AlfredputonhisoutdoorclothingandwalkedinBruce’sfootstepstothegravesite.Hearrivedjustas

Brucewasputtingaraggedgarmentinthehole.

“You’reburyingtheoutfityouworebackfromKathmandu,MasterBruce?”

“I’mactuallyburyingthebloodstain.It’sallthat’sleftofRā’salGhūl.”

“Andyou’reputtingtheseremainsnexttoyourfather?”

“Theybothgavememylife.Itseemsfittingthattheybeburiedtogether.”

“Anddoyoumournthemtogether?”

“Yes.Ido.”

It began to snow again as Bruce finished his task. He and Alfred stood over the three graves with

bowedheadsuntiltheskydarkened.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

For more than twenty years, editor and writer D

ENNIS

O’N

EIL

put the “dark” in the Dark Knight and

wastheguidingforcebehindtheBatmanmythosatDCComics.O’NeilbeganhiscareerasStanLee’s
editorialassistantatMarvelComicsandwentontobecomeoneoftheindustry’smostsuccessfuland
respected creators. As a freelance writer and journalist, he has produced several novels and works of
nonfiction,includingthenationalbestsellerBatman:Knightfall and The DC Comics Guide to Writing
Comics,aswellashundredsofcomicbooks,reviews,teleplays,andshortstories.O’Neilhaswrittenfor
almost all of DC’s and Marvel’s major titles, including Green Lantern, Shazam!, Spider-Man,
Superman,WonderWoman,IronMan,Daredevil,JusticeLeagueofAmerica,andAzrael.Anexperton
comics,popculture,andfolklore/mythology,O’Neilisapopularguestatconventionsandonradioand
television.HelivesandworksinNewYorkwithhiswife,Marifran.

Document Outline

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART I: BRUCE WAYNE
PART II: BATMAN

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